


ex parte

by chardes



Category: Radiant Historia
Genre: Gen, Major Spoilers, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 37,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1975449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chardes/pseuds/chardes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two Historias. Two worlds. Two stories, told from the perspectives of two harrowing shadows-- their influence on the other beyond their knowing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“What? Where is this?” the shopkeeper inquired incredulously at the young man’s question. “This is Alistel, boy. Look around you. Ain’t it obvious?”

The said young man turned about and peeked out the shop window. Everything was alien to him; from the metallic structures, to the unbelievable stench of burning coal hanging constantly in the air.

“Sorry. I’m kind of lost,” he said matter-of-factly. The shopkeeper was not the first that he crossed in the past few days; almost every other person he had met exclaimed the same thing. It was safe to assume that this was one of the larger capitals of this... Wherever this was.

The elder man shook his head, throwing a half-torn map at the lost youth. “Take it,” the merchant huffed, “it’s unsaleable anyway.” Nodding his thanks, the youth shuffled out of the shop.

This was the boring journey of Dullahan; just a simple man trying to find his way home.

\--------------

Asking for directions afterwards was much easier, now that he had a name to tag the city with. Luckily for him, it would seem that Alistellans shared the same language as he did; he hadn’t had too much of a trouble communicating thus far.

Already from a glance, he could identify a few technological wonders within the city walls-- artificial lighting that _works_ , warm indoors despite the frigid weather and high elevation, and last but not least, the existence of tools that can run on its’ own, not powered by man.

He paused, slightly hesitant upon reaching his destination-- the tavern. He had his doubts as to whether he will be able to get any useful information here, but taverns were always worth a try.

There was another concern he had in mind that unfortunately, rang dead true for him two moments after he first thought about it.

His coins were worthless. Nevermind getting lost, it seemed as if the possibility of getting drunk was also now beyond his capabilities.

The tavernmaster scowled visibly, looking at the mint with incredulity. After all, no tradesmen liked seeing currencies that were not known to them.

Dullahan didn’t blame him, but he hadn’t been expected to be directed straight to the door at the first signs of not having coins on hand. Across the room, he could see two burly men ducking in-- looking ready to sort things out if he caused any trouble. ... Not that he would, of course.

“... It’s been a pleasure regardless, sir,” the blonde said, pulling as much diplomacy as he could in his tone even as he headed out. The small commotion was attracting attention-- and the last thing Dullahan needed was further embarrassment. _Guess the tavern’s out_ , he sighed inwardly.

He didn’t manage to get out of the premise before something tripped across his feet, landing face-first. “Owww,” the thing groaned on the floor, and it was only then Dullahan realised it was a boy in ill-fitting clothes. Instinctively, he kneeled to offer a hand to the poor sap. “Sorry, I didn’t see you-”

“MARCO! You _bastard-_ ” there was a flurry of movements, and years of experience told Dullahan he was about to get punched in the face. He willed for all for his right cheeks to thicken and soften the impact, but the punch actually didn’t come. He hadn’t realised he had been squinting, either, until he opened his eyes to meet the potential assailant’s.

There was a long pause before both the boy and the lady-- the one that threatened violence-- realised that they were staring at him. “... In case you didn’t hear me, _madam_ , I apologised to your son,” Dullahan noted, his dissatisfaction showing.

The weird part was mostly on how the woman actually pulled her punch mid-stride-- that meant she was trained. Actually, judging from bits and pieces of their padded armour, it was safe to write them off as mercenaries.

It got weirder after that, when the boy sat up and appraised him, as if he was an item on display. As did the woman. _“... Stocke?”_ the woman breathed, a tone unbecoming of her earlier behaviour... And dressing, for that matter.

“No, I don’t have any stocks for sale.” Dullahan raised himself to his full height, towering over both of them. The boy didn’t seem to suffer any injuries-- and he felt no obligation to stay any further.

“No, _wait,_ uh, sorry about that, I was kinda pissed you pushed my friend down, you know? And I’m _not_ his mother,” the woman exploded into a chatterbox, as if eager to get him to stay. Dullahan raised an eyebrow. Now _that_ is what he called drastic change in personality. He hadn’t realised that the woman already had a tightening grip on his arm.

“Raynie! He’s not-” “I _know_ ,” the lady snapped, shaking her head-- and her long, dark ponytail with it. “Look, uh, I actually overheard you saying you needed a drink, so like, you’re broke, right? We’ll treat yah.”

Dullahan just stared at the duo, trying to assess the incredulity of the situation. How many birds in one stone did he get from this? He didn’t bother to count. “... Sure?” He was understandably suspicious, but it was a more interesting development than trying any other alternatives at the moment.

And if anything, he could probably get a good quantity (he wouldn’t count on quality) of information from lady chatterbox-- Raynie, was it?-- on _where_ exactly this was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The more he knew about this continent, the better.”

The awkward silence lingered on at the table of three, located at the corner furthest from the fireplace.

They had the troublesome introductions done; it went along the lines of name, job, and rank (they were in the _military?_ and _captains_ to boot?). He fed them what he always did to acquaintances-- his pseudonym, he’s a nobody, he’s just minding his own business. They seemed to take it just fine, though their faces said otherwise.

There was something very unsettling about the way they stared at him; but that was not his immediate concern.

“... So as you know, I’m lost. I need your help to tell me more about Alistel.” _A church, a library, anything._ Marco perked up. “In what way, Mr. Dullahan? Everyone in the continent knows about Alistel.”

_Yeah, except for me, apparently._

“So this is a continent? How large are we speaking of? Population?”

Raynie’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Hold on a mo. Are you saying that you don’t know _Vainqueur?”_

Dullahan shook his head in earnest. “I’m trying to find a way home. Here,” he offered the duo two coins-- two of different nations, having picked them up from his travels. Granted, the only thing he had on him right now was a bloody satchel and some useless money; he’ll have to fix that later.

He was hoping for either of them to at least recognise the heraldry minted on them; but they shook their head. No luck. Defeated, Dullahan leaned back against his weathered chair, the legs creaking under his weight. “Well, I suppose we can give you a general rundown,” Raynie offered, and Dullahan nodded; might as well get the most out of his stay here.

The more he knew about this continent, the better.

\------

The year was apparently 154, which was three years into a 50-year peace treaty signed by the continent’s superpowers: Granorg, Alistel, Cygnus, Forga, and Celestia. From Raynie’s and Marco’s explanation, the peace treaty was signed for the purpose of a joint effort in dealing with the rampaging problem of limited nourishing soil and desertification, where previously, the matter was to be resolved by war. The peace treaty was a feat in itself, seeing how it entailed international and interracial cooperation.

Relations between the allied nations, however, was tense. There was much debate to the Granorgnites’ sealed-lips policy. Desertification was apparently advancing rapidly until a few months before the peace treaty was signed, when the phenomenon seemingly grinded to a stop, and Granorg apparently had the answers to it-- but was unyielding in releasing information on the matter; and that hindered bona fide negotiations, especially against their previous arch-nemesis, the nation of Alistel.

The two also seemed awfully dodgy about the topic, however. Dullahan decided not to press on, and picked a different subject matter instead.

The sorcery that Alistel ran on stemmed from an ore by the name of thaumatech; it was the source of power for all the automatons that Dullahan had seen. The fact that ores mined from the earth could yield such otherworldly benefits was the first major indication that he _really_ did not belong here.

“Which one is a coastal city? There’s bound to be ships to other continents,” Dullahan asked, laying out the torn map that he had been reviewing as the duo gave their summarised history lesson.

“I don’t think we’ve ever found another continent, at least, none of us knows,” Raynie said as she rapped on the table thoughtfully. “If we did, most would’ve decided get away from the dying continent already. But we’re still here.”

“If you need to know more about this, though, you could probably pay a visit to Granorg,” Marco’s fingers tapped at the western part of the continent on the map, before tracing a route from Alistel-- going through a mountainous range, past a border checkpoint, and traversing through a steppe. Seemed reasonable on horseback.

“I suppose that’s where I should head to next. I would thank you for your help, but I have nothing to offer in return,” Dullahan started, but was cut off by Marco. “It’s alright, Mr. Dullahan,” the short captain said, “if anything, talking to you really helped us to calm our minds.”

There was a painful silence that followed. The woman had stopped her binge drinking activities entirely. ... That explained their earlier behaviour, at least.

“... Did I remind you of a casualty of war? If so, I apologise,” the blonde offered, his tone low, and tipped his cloth bandana slightly in respect. ... Not sure if the gesture meant anything in Alistel, however.

“Stocke is _not_ dead!” Raynie roared, smashing the mug Dullahan hadn’t realised she was holding-- its’ contents empty-- onto the table. Raising herself from her seat, the woman stormed out of the tavern. Marco, giving an apologetic look to Dullahan and the rest of the eyes on them across the room, left enough coins on the table for the broken mug, and surprisingly, some money for him to purchase essentials. The lost traveler watched the stout fellow leave, chasing after his female companion.

Whoever it was, Dullahan raised his mug for a toast to Stocke-- the man whose reputation with his mates just earned a stranger a roof to stay under for the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "His campsite gave him a clear view of the west side of the continent, stretching almost towards the horizon line. He would’ve enjoyed the view more, if he hadn’t been struck by a larger, pending problem."

By far the most disturbing thing he had encountered thus far was the prices of food. 

Items of war were unsurprisingly in abundance and oversupplied in times of peace, and the imbalance of the market could be seen focused in items of more dire needs-- namely fuel. But none of them could compare to the prices of wheat and clean water. 

It wasn’t easy looking for a source of income in Alistel, either; he had loads of competition. War veterans were also prowling the cities, their experience in violence urging them to harrass unwilling civilians, as was the norm in times of peace. Most of them were still enlisted with the Alistellan army; which meant that the generals were either shorthanded with their disciplinary committee, or just couldn’t bother. Dullahan suspected it not as the latter. 

Of the few odd-jobs he did receive payment from subcontracting to the military, it was, unsurprisingly, requests for forage of medicinal plants from nearby hills. The military hospitallers were sensible for asking external help, if not slightly desperate.

His encounters in the hills did not impress him, however; because the various races were not the only ones having to deal with the desertification. Already, he encountered various demonic fowls, looking ready to peck at his corpse for food. And demonic fowls were  _not_ a feature that he remembered seeing in his life, ever.

Against his better judgement, Dullahan gave up on trying to stock on full rations for the trip -- he’ll have to make do partially off the land. That, and none of the local stables seemed willing to part with a palfrey. 

Which meant that he had to travel on foot.

\--------

It took him almost an eternity to reach the peaks of Lazvil Hill, which surprised even himself. While he didn’t pride himself in his mountaineering skills, he admitted that he was severely out of practice on traversing through natural terrain without his horse. 

That wasn’t his only problem, either-- there were aggressives rampant  _everywhere._

Already he made two close encounters with monsters, and once against a group of four midget, rat-faced bandits. For once, he was very glad he hadn’t had a ride-- if not, it would’ve been dead during the face-off. 

Luckily for him, however, the bandits did not put up much of a resistance... And they did leave behind a healthy supply of reed arrows. Dullahan gladly took possession of them.

Night had already fallen, and the blonde decided not to make a fire, eating plucked fruits in the cold, even as he scrutinised the map and planning his route for tomorrow. His campsite gave him a clear view of the west side of the continent, stretching almost towards the horizon line. He would’ve enjoyed the view more, if he hadn’t been struck by a larger, pending problem.

Stretched below the cliffs of his campsite was a desert.

So the map was not only torn, it was also outdated. It clearly showed that there were some ways to go downhill before signs of the desert begins, slightly before the border checkpoint (aptly named the Sand Fortress, possibly from its’ wartime heritage). That would mean there would be nothing for him to forage, all the way up to the checkpoint; and based on the estimated distance he travelled today, he won’t be reaching the checkpoint for another two days.

_creak_

Breaking the quiet rhythm of the night winds, Dullahan warily turned towards the source.

It was one of the many trees that populated the hills, and this one was dangerously rooted at the edge of the cliff. The trunk was twice his own size, but the roots held; and possibly did for many years. In an attempt to right itself, the trunk grew upwards at an awkward angle towards the sky, and away from the menace of the cliff.

There was a subtle hint of running sand in the winds, but Dullahan couldn’t identify the source. It soon became apparent, however, that the tree in question was  spilling sand. The leaves shrank slowly, but surely, before turning into sand entirely; leaving behind the empty husk of a trunk, the symbol of life, dried and dead. 

And the entire trunk collapsed on itself, tumbling over the cliff edge, carrying part of the cliff with it.

Dullahan stopped eating, and prepared to walk through the night; he had just lost his appetite.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time he reached the border checkpoint, he was out of both rations and liquids. He was tired, parched, and hungry. 

Dullahan was sincerely hoping for a quiet and relatively empty checkpoint, but for one reason or another, it seemed to be bustling with activity. A quick glance informed him that there were at least three platoons present, each bearing a separate heraldry, and all armed to the teeth. 

Great. He just walked right into a session for international negotiations.

While he was still beyond the vision of the nearest troops, he managed to scrunch out his torn--and now  very worn-- map. Luckily for him, he could make out just enough of the heraldries to figure out where they were from: Celestia, Alistel, and Cygnus. Suffice to say, security was going to be tight; Dullahan hoped that he didn’t look suspicious enough to warrant getting himself into trouble.

Unfortunately for him, he was rounded up by two members of the border patrol almost immediately.

“State your business...” one hissed, eyeing Dullahan from head to toe, then spat on the sand next to them. Dullahan eyed the guard’s armband-- pure white; possibly representing neutral border guards. “... Tch. It’s a damn Cygnan. You with the lot?” the guard pointed a thumb at the Cygnan platoon behind him.

“No, actually. I just want to pass through. I have business in Granorg.” 

_“Ha._ Hear that? Says he wants to go to Granorg.” The other guard chuckled in response.

“Hope you have papers.”

Well, shit. That was something Dullahan  _hadn’t_ considered.

_“Normally,_ we would’ve let you go, you know? But we do have some big shots over there in the Fortress, so we’ve gotta buck it up. Wouldn’t want this to be an international problem, right? You see where I’m going with this?”

Dullahan kept silent.

“Means you’re  _trespassing_ under the Code of Summits . You get to meet all the bigwigs to explain yourself. Isn’t that just fun?”

“... I reserve the right to self-represent, I hope,” Dullahan said coolly, trying to calm his anxiety and not flip out. He could easily break free of these two, sure, but that would mean summoning the wrath of three entire platoons at his face, and tighter border security.

And thin out his chances of slipping into Granorg.

The guard seemed annoyed when Dullahan did not bend to his authority, and swiftly ran a steel gauntleted fist across the trespasser’s face.

\------------------

_Hey._

Dullahan winced at the voice; it was far too loud, and far too close for comfort. Much like it was being spoken in his head.

_What are you?_

He scrambled his thoughts in an attempt to find an answer. He had none. He did, however, concluded that it was the voice of a little girl. The last time he remembered a voice in his head, it was nowhere as high pitched as this one.

He waited for the voice to say something again, but it never came.

\--------------------

The thick stench of urea and iron drove him awake, bringing with it a massive headache. His hand reached up to his temples where the guard hit him, and he made contact with caked blood as a reward. He let out an unwilling groan, and he heard footsteps coming in his direction.

He turned, addressing the jailer with a nod; and the jailer nodded in return.

“Sorry about the head. Some of the fresh recruits were from Granorg, see, and they didn’t get along well with Cygnans.” Dullahan eyed the jailer; he couldn’t possibly be over twenty years old. Mighty young for the post... He was under the impression that only those who garnered full trust from the top could be one; the one he had regular drinks with back home-- the manorial jailer-- was well into his late forties… and packed with an indomitable will, to boot. 

Unless this young chap was part of the war effort.

“You’re up in two hours with the council. It might be a bit intimidating at first, but I assure you that you’re in good hands,” the jailer said with a smile. “Just let them know what you’ve gone through, and they’ll let you out in no time. ... Well, because you’re not the first case, mostly.”

Quite a chatterbox, isn’t he?

“... Hey. Have we met somewhere?”

Dullahan’s eyebrow raised, but shrugged. 

“Oh well. Just give me a holler once you’re done with the council-- they’ll probably release you on the spot.” He tipped his bandana. “I’ll get you a drink. The name’s Kiel, by the way.”

Dullahan returned the gesture in addition to a small smile, and set to work on planning his negotiations with the council.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " “Just hang on a while more; you’re up next with the council. Just think about that, nothing else.” Kiel gave a childish grin, hoping to lighten the prisoner’s mood."

The headache proved fatal to his brainstorming session, as his mind periodically chose to blank out and stare into space. He had considered passing himself off as a simple Cygnan traveler, but the chances were that the council was probably attended by a Cygnan representative. In all honesty, his own confusion and migraine stopped him from thinking of any other alternative aside from telling the truth: that he wasn’t from Vainqueur.

He shuddered to think of the possible responses from the council.

Dullahan shifted slightly closer towards the hallway within his cell, huddling his cloak closer. He’d consumed half of the ale Kiel provided; the other half was spent washing his head wound.

Yet somehow, the stench of blood lingered on still.

 _It’s the bars,_ he reassured himself. _They’re iron. They’re similar, but they’re not the same. Your mind’s playing tricks with you._

He refrained from asking for more liquor; this moment would pass. He was _sure_ of it. He couldn’t risk himself walking into the council meeting half-drunk. He needed to be sober, and he needed his brains to think.

Somehow, his brain was being _overly_ active at this juncture, much to his own dismay.

 _No_ _._ There were no corpses at the other corner. _No, I’m not going over there to confirm that._

He reached for his bow, usually slung across his shoulder. He made contact with thin air, instead. The border patrol took his possessions. Fair enough, but _totally not something he appreciated right now._

Dullahan was no longer looking at the empty parchment before him-- he was staring at the darkness of the cell, terror gripping at his every jittering move.

=======

Kiel quietly brooded over his desk, still unable to figure out where he had met the man before. There was an odd feeling of _deja vu_ , but not quite-- but that could be applied to pretty much all the memories he retained from during the war. Back then, still a fresh recruit, he could remember clearly that he was assigned to a brigade under the now-revered General Rosch.

The details on his first assignment and all subsequent events, however, was generally shut out from him. The most confusing one being that he actually _remembered dying_. But somehow, he was still here. That did wonders to sober himself up and stop being overly childish. God, the nightmares.

He did voice his concerns with Dr. Sonja, though, and she had reassured him that quite a few people have had this off-feeling ever since _‘_ _the Event’_ three years ago-- a top-secret Alistel project that involved Granorg. Well, at least he thought it was.

Well, _the Event_ was, after all, the major subject of tension between the two nations. There were drunken theories running about, claiming that _the Event_ was probably some continent-wide manipulation of mana, especially those focusing on memories-- but top guns from almost every field couldn’t find evidence to support the rumours; and thus they remained as rumours.

“Mrrrrrrr,” Kiel’s forehead collided with the desk, throwing the desk lamp into a slight flicker. Sure, he didn’t need to mull over it, but something at the back of his mind told him that _this_ particular feeling of familiarity was _important_. Could be someone who he liked very much, someone he looked up to-- “oh, _I don’t know_ ,” he whined defeatedly.

Kiel’s train of thoughts was stopped abruptly, however, when suspicious sounds emanated from the prisoner’s cell.

As much as he’d like to give the prisoner a benefit of doubt, Kiel reached for his blade as he stepped down the hallway to investigate.

“Heather, _where are you!!_ ” the voice-- the prisoner’s-- was shaken, and confusingly so.

Kiel quickened his pace, not bothering with his sword, as he stepped into the cell’s view.

===========

Who was he kidding? He was in a fortress dungeon, rich with the history of war. Of course he was going to be having nightmares. Getting thrown into a cell _here, of all places_ was the last thing on his itinerary. He had such confidence in Heather that he literally _waltzed straight into the Sand Fortress_. The _fuck_ was he thinking? Trying to relive the idea that yes, he’s an unchecked murderer, burning down villages, getting his own brigade killed, and ordered the massacre of unwilling civilians? A traitor who abandoned his own lord?

All of whom were eager to see him dead? Eager to tear him apart, the moment he wasn’t watching? When he direly needed sleep? When he was with his friends and family?

_Heather can change that, but she isn’t here._

It was true that he haven’t heard from Heather since he found himself on this unknown continent. He should’ve been more suspicious and more careful-- but he now knew that he was all alone.

Alone with those imaginary eyes staring at him from the shadows-- he knew _very well_ that they were imaginary, a product of his imbecilic thoughts-- ready to swallow him whole.

There was a loud banging of metal hinges, and Dullahan felt himself being lifted to his feet, and dragged out of the cell-- and away from the nightmares.

=====

Kiel hadn’t expected the man to be a war veteran, but there he was, showing every sign of being one.

His brief internship with Dr. Sonja before being transferred back into the armed divisions gave the young jailer all the exposure he needed to deal with post-war soldiers-- and it was never pretty. Sure, he was no expert in medicine, but he could probably calm the prisoner down, somewhat.

It was against protocol to get someone out of their cells unauthorised, but he knew he was doing the right thing.

Kiel made the older man sit next to the desk, pouring some fresh water from his personal keg-- something rare and treasured this far away from Alistel (courtesy of General Rosch during his last visit). He shoved the mug into the prisoner’s hands, making sure he took a drink, before eyeing him warily.

It was a few, long minutes before they made eye contact. “... Sorry, I need to get out of here,” the prisoner-- Dullahan, was it?-- said, swallowing uncomfortably as he wiped away at his sweaty palms and face into a fistful of his cloak.

“Yeah, I know,” Kiel said carefully, eyeing the corridors and stretching his ears to hear for any activity upstairs-- nothing out of the ordinary. Thankfully he was the only man on duty down here this afternoon; otherwise, he would’ve had to wiggle his way out of explaining this to his colleagues and superior. Which was _also_ never pretty.

 _... Yeah, this guy’s not the Sergeant,_ Kiel thought, slightly bemused before stopping himself. Which sergeant?

Nevertheless, Kiel followed the prisoner’s gaze everywhere-- and carefully kept his weapon out of the other’s reach. “Just hang on a while more; you’re up next with the council. Just think about that, nothing else.” Kiel gave a childish grin, hoping to lighten the prisoner’s mood.

===============

As his nightmares began to subside, his sane mind re-emerged, insistently shoving the idea of breaking out at his face. _What, and be ungrateful? How low can you get?_ Dullahan frowned.

The hour of the council meeting could not come sooner.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So... Before you begin, I’m obliged to let you know we’ve been through your possessions,” Raul started, clasping his hands together on the desk. “And we have some questions that we think you might care to answer first.”

The large, oaken door slid to a close behind him, shutting him in with the council. Dullahan’s even, measured steps brought him before three seated parties-- representatives of their respective nations, he assumed. One of them wore clothes that he was all-too-familiar with by now; the full ceremonial plate of an officer, the crest of Alistel engraved into an ornate, scarf clasp. He knew this man’s face from artisans’ images of him all across the mechanical city; he was Prime Minister Raul.

The man on Raul’s left dressed quite similarly as Dullahan did; a large cloak, a bandana across his head-- signs of a desert traveller, dark and brooding. What the Cygnan representative held underneath his cloak, however, was largely different; Dullahan spotted a minimum of three knives.

Across from the Cygnan representative was an entirely opposite image: an adult woman stood next to a young girl, flipping through the papers on her behalf. The girl’s eyes were glued to him. The most noteable trait about the two ladies were the fact that they had horns on their heads, and pointed ears.

_Beastkind._

“Greetings to you, Prime Minister. You have my apologies for the trouble.” Dullahan bowed his head slightly, addressing only the man at the center stage. _Address the council chairman. Appease him; he has the casting vote._

Raul’s hand made a swatting movement, as if to dismiss the trouble. “It’s alright. Quite a good thing, actually! You’re helping us kill time while Granorg’s representatives arrive,” the governor said cheerfully. “Hope _you_ don’t mind, having to entertain this old git.” His Cygnan counterpart was unentertained, his piercing gaze threatening to debunk any lies Dullahan may come up with.

_ He could tell I wasn’t one of them. _

“So... Before you begin, I’m obliged to let you know we’ve been through your possessions,” Raul started, clasping his hands together on the desk. “And we have some questions that we think you might care to answer first.”

Dullahan watched as Raul bent sideways to retrieve a few objects, setting them gently on the table. Dullahan pretended to peer in and get a closer look, but he knew those objects all too well; travelling cheques, copper mints, a few rare silver, and guild recommendation letters. His home currencies.

The other object, however, was not familiar to him until recently, but retrospectively, may have been the source of all of his misfortune.

The black book.

As Dullahan’s mind raced for a plausible response, he heard the creaking of chairs and the unsheathing of blades. “Do think carefully about your answer, Mr. Dullahan-- or we may have to kill you.”

===========

Aht had told Raul and Garland earlier about the peculiar nature of their new prisoner, but they hadn’t paid much heed to it. After all, they were all busy with preparing for Eru-- _Queen_ Eruca’s arrival; their attention span had been filled with complicated things like logistics, management, and other stuff that humans seem to make a fuss about. Like ale and banquets and whatnot.

Slipping away from Elm’s watchful eye as she was distracted, Aht managed to sneak into the dungeons to take a look-- and the cute little human guard let her in!-- and confirm her suspicions first-hand.

She wiped at her eyes, as if expecting her eyesight to have gone wrong. _Vainqueur is a world governed by Mana,_ Aht reminded herself. _Everything-- everything has it. Rocks, trees, people. Everything._

But the unconscious prisoner _had no Mana._ No flow, no signs of blockage or restrictions, either; just... no Mana.

A living human that did not turn to sand even if his Mana had been depleted.

_... What are you?_

Aht took a step back, head spinning with the new revelations. She turned and ran back upstairs.

_Elm. I’ve gotta tell Elm._

=======

Things moved surprisingly quicker after Aht alerted Elm, and they managed to convince Raul to look through the prisoner’s belongings.

There was nothing out of the ordinary with his weapon-- a simple bow, standard-issue and available for purchase from one of the local smithies in Alistel. The map was also a mass-produced one, available off the shelf from any well-stocked grocer.

Everything else was a confusing mess.

First was his money. There were a few Alistellan coins, but many were of an unknown source. The heraldries did not even bear the markings of the Vainqueur Alliance’s new, proposed prototype mint.

The second was a different map entirely-- one that did not depict Vainqueur. They shared the same symbolic conventions as Vainqueur’s maps, but none of the names of towns, villages, and cities, rang any bell with the Satyros, nor the Prime Minister.

Third was the Black Chronicle.

======

Dullahan took a deep breath, willing his headache to go away. Though the Satyros woman’s blade was drawn, and the Cygnan representative looked eager to draw blood, they were held back by the sheer need for more information out of him.

In his short lifetime of twenty-nine years, he had attended court occasions for the last four years before his betrayal-- and managing stressful relations was one of the things he unfortunately picked up all too well.

“... Let’s exchange intelligence,” Dullahan began, his eyes trained onto Raul-- nobody else in the room mattered. _Persuade the leader, and the rest will follow._ Raul shrugged, indicating that he was listening. The blades, however, did not lower. No surprises there.

“I am Dullahan. I was a knight serving Lord Spencer in the Solstice Wars in Alanborough,” the blond eyed their responses, making no sudden movements as he spoke. Raul frowned visibly; the Cygnan snorted in disbelief; and the ladies patiently waited for him to continue. “... But I’m assuming that means nothing to you.”

A nod in confirmation from Raul across the room, and Dullahan continued.

“I discovered the book in a crown-sponsored dig. The next thing I knew, I was here. This was three weeks ago.” He paused. “If this book has any significance to you, then I know none of it.”

“And you’re implying you know nothing about Vainqueur? That’s absurd!” the older Satyros hissed with malice. Dullahan looked at her briefly.

“I’m _expressing_ it, good lady.”

The little girl-- commanding a surprisingly unyielding authority--  raised a hand in front of her assistant, and became the only thing stopping the older Satyros from cutting him down. While he had no knowledge in Satyros hierarchy, he saw that they bore similarity with other tribes of his homeland; she was likely a revered spiritual leader amongst a superstitious community.

He turned his attention back to Raul. “I know no one on this continent. I have no witnesses or accounts as to my credibility. And if you really need to know my motive for crossing the borders into Granorg...” he paused. Should he get Raynie and Marco involved? Probably not.

“... I heard that they have an extensive library, which meant there’s a higher chance of me finding a way home. I’m just a lost man, nothing more.

To believe my tales or not, however, is entirely your call, Prime Minister.”

Dullahan made no move to back down from his stare with the Alistellan head. To back down was to imply that he was lying; and that would’ve meant death.

The little girl raised herself from her chair out of the corner of his eyes-- and he could almost feel her eyes boring into his soul. She moved her lips.

“So... What are you? Do you have an answer?”

Dullahan could not help but smile at the question, and recognising the source of the mysterious voice. “I’m only human, child.”

=========

It took Raul a while to consider and accept his offer, but Dullahan was thankful that he did. The moment the Prime Minister laid down the ground rules of no violence, the Cygnan and Celestians sheathed their blades, and quietly settled down... much to Dullahan’s relief.

They took the next few hours sharing information on the two realms, and Dullahan was now in greater clarity of the situation he was in than before. The Sand Fortress summit was called in order to further discussions on what transpired upon the conclusion of the war, three years ago in Vainqueur.

Mana, as a concept, was now being painstakingly explained to him by the little lady-- Aht. As far as Dullahan was concerned, there was no such thing as Mana back home. Dullahan’s skeptic nature reared its ugly head as he folded his arms before him, trying hard to give the concept a benefit of doubt. Aht’s helpful lecture came with small demonstrations on mid-air combustion and other trinkets, however; and that, in turn, made him consider whether they were sharing the same world at all. Just what _sorcery_ was this? (to which, the little lady replied, _was essentially sorcery._ _)_

The existence of this element of Mana in Vainqueur was possibly the main reason behind all of the technological disparities he noted, which were far beyond what his own civilisation could offer to their own people.

Raul’s diplomatic nature could be seen from the way he kept Dullahan’s belongings out of reach, combined with his constant engagement with Dullahan to keep him distracted-- was, Dullahan admitted, one of the finest ways to keep a man rooted in negotiations.

One bit of lore that interested Dullahan, however, was on the desertification. There was a minor scuffle that had broken out on the topic; when Aht was stomping her foot on the ground, trying to convince Raul to stop the use of thaumatech completely. Raul-- and surprisingly, the Cygnan-- had argued that thaumatech was their way of life, in light of the harsh weather conditions that Alistel and Cygnus were situated in. Where Alistel focused on keeping its hearths warm, Cygnus was using the same technology for aqueducts, mills, and keeping the weather bearable for its citizens.

Dullahan also picked up from the scuffle the sense of ego that Alistel clung to-- the idea that thaumatech was the identity of the nation-- was one of the major things stopping them from abandoning the technology. Well, that, and…

“We’re not asking for much, Aht,” Raul said, exasperated by the subject topic. Dullahan guessed that they must have had similar conversations in the past, but to no known resolution. “Just provide us with undeniable proof that thaumachine’s part of the problem, and we’ll work on resolving it. You can’t just order us to stop _for no apparent reason_.”

Aht fumed. “I’m telling you the reason _right now_! It’s thaumatech! The ore! You remove it from the earth, you rob it of Mana! Desertification! Simple!” The little girl bit her lip. Dullahan could tell she was upset, but as to the full extent _why_ she was upset, he had not a clue.

“You’re putting Granorg’s preservation efforts to waste, humans,”  the woman said, her gaze stopping briefly on every human in the room-- Dullahan included. “Queen Eruca painstakingly stopped signs of desertification from worsening three years ago, and you essentially restarted the entire process. And now you’re demanding for _evidence_ before you act? You humans are absurd.”

The Cygnan scowled at the Satyros’s remark, not impressed by the condescending way the situation was being phrased. “Elm. We’ve already talked about this.” The man’s voice was deep, the tone verberating through the enclosed room. “Prove it to us, and we’ll stop using thaumatech. You can’t expect both Alistel and Cygnus to drop support for our citizens.”

“Which also raises the question-- what _did_ Granorg do? If it was really that miraculous, I propose for Granorg-- and Celestia, for that matter-- to release more information on this anti-desertification effort to the Alliance. It’s better for us to be in the loop as well to help out, no?” Raul added, eyeing the two Satyros, who had grown oddly quiet on the subject.

Ah. The _Event_ that the Alistellan taverns were abuzz about.

“So, what _is_ the _Event_ _?”_ Dullahan inquired, genuinely curious. He threw a glance at the Satyros, and they immediately avoided his eye contact. He raised an eyebrow. “We don’t know for sure,” Raul voiced, his slight irritation at the subject showing, “Granorg has been very tight-lipped about it. That’s what we’ve been working on.”

“While the continent wastes away? I see that you are very efficient.”

“We try.”

The conversation moved on. The general consensus between the nations was that the desertification was a natural occurrence, and the rediscovery of certain plants acting as Mana fertilisers for the soil were currently being focused on as a field of heavily invested research. Dullahan eyed the Satyros duo again. ... They were being awfully quiet, leaving the Cygnan and the Allistellan motormouth to speak on their behalf on the subject.

What had Marco said again?

_“Currently there are two factions within the Alliance, so we Alistel are in agreement with Cygnus, and Celestia is siding with Granorg,” Marco noted._

“... Speaking of which, where is the Granorgnite representative?” Dullahan opined off-handedly, which paused all the debates happening in the room.

“Is the queen going to skip this summit, too?” the Cygnan spat. “This alliance is never going to last the 50 years, Raul. Mark my words.”

_If you have 50 years, gentlemen,_ Dullahan noted, realising then that the biggest threat to Vainqueur wasn’t the desertification-- but the nations’ collective passivism and inaction to resolve the desertification.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dullahan only realised now that Satyros had goat legs, complete with hooves, in replacement of legs. Also a fitting tail. Everything else, however, was surprisingly humanlike."

Dullahan’s status as a prisoner didn’t change after the council meeting. Otherwise, though, things seemed to be moving as he had hoped. 

A messenger from Granorg had arrived earlier, confirming the Cygnan King ( _that was a king?_ ),  King Garland’s suspicions: the Queen had other urgent matters to tend to, and conveyed her apologies for absence.

The council agreed to have Dullahan be sent straight to Granorg, after private discussions amongst the three representatives. Dullahan caught Aht wildly flailing at the black book during their discussion, as if indicating its relevance with the final decision made.

Which was why, currently, he was stuck in a wagon, under the watchful eyes of Aht and Elm.

He was returned his possessions, but as expected, his bow and the book was not. He spotted the book tucked into a satchel worn everywhere by Elm; it would seem like she was never going to put it down. Dullahan shrugged. If it appeased them, they could probably hold onto it until he figured out what the book actually  _ was. _

It had occurred to the blond that they weren’t escorted by any of the Celestian troops, which was surprising for a tribe leader. Dullahan took a mental note that Elm was probably a  _ very _ able bodyguard, if Aht could rely on solely her for protection.

He took a peek out of the wagon, narrowly avoiding Elm at the front seat. It was evening on the same day of the meeting, and he finally saw that they had cleared the Sand Fortress. Oddly, Aht agreed to Dullahan’s request to leave immediately _\--_ _because he didn’t want to spend one night in that hellhole--_ with Elm being generally annoyed at the request.

“So, little lady... You’re a psychic?” Dullahan ducked back in, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Elm’s pointed ears wiggle at his decision to engage in a conversation with her lady.

“No! What makes you say that?” Aht huffed, arms folded, looking genuinely offended. “I’m a shaman. Different. I’m much better.” Dullahan only realised now that Satyros had  _ goat legs, complete with hooves, _ in replacement of legs. Also a fitting tail. Everything else, however, was surprisingly humanlike.

Dullahan dimly recalled the purported sightings of shamans in Alanborough, but he also remembered arresting a few of them for trickery and deceit. ... He decided to keep that fact to himself.

“You’re very young for a leader. Is it because of your talent in shamanism?” Dullahan asked, unable to suppress his smile. God, he couldn’t help but smile around children.

“I’m 12! I’m no longer a kid, you know!” Aht remarked proudly, pounding a fist to her chest. Dullahan wondered if Aht intentionally used the word  _ kid  _ instead of  _ child _ _,_ or it was just his mind being unusually poetic with wordplay.

“... Yes, you’d make a good older sister for my daughter.”  _I wonder how they’re doing,_ Dullahan thought.  _ Either worried sick, or busy cursing my name to the high heavens for abandoning them. _

By the time he paid his attention back to reality, a huge pair of eyes was staring at him in anticipation. “... What?” he asked, brow furrowing in confusion.

“How old?”

“She would be five soon.”  _That would make it three years since I left Alanborough. Has it really?_

“You have family?” his little audience tilted her head in curiosity.

“... Yeah. Is that odd?”

“Do you miss them?”

“Verily.”

Dullahan let the silence linger on for a while longer.

He could feel a death glare at him from the front seat, and Elm’s general aura of disapproval seeping into the otherwise cozy wagon, lighted by fire enclosed in a glass jar. “Are we not going to stop for the night, lady Elm?”

“You wish,” the older Satyros spat.

_... Suit yourself. _

“If it’s food, you don’t have to worry! We packed enough to eat on the road!” Aht jumped back in enthusiasm, glad that an opportunity came for her to change topic. Dullahan assumed his own mellow mood got to the girl. Aht shoved dried bread and a waterskin into his hands, and took her own portion from a bag nearby.

Dullahan took a swig. Ale, as expected.

The bread was made of rye, which was essentially the staple crop, even back home. The quality, however, left much to be desired. Not that he was a picky eater, but the size, texture, and coloration of the bread reminded him of bread trenchers of old. Considering how valuable wood must be in Vainqueur, he wouldn’t be surprised if they-- specifically, Celestians-- retained bread-plates in an effort to conserve forestry.

Aht crawled over to hand Elm her portion before ducking back in from the cool, night winds of the Gran Plain.

“Soooo....” the child began.

Dullahan tilted his head.

“You  _really_ don’t know anything about the Black Chronicle?”

Dullahan looked away. It was true that he knew of myths and legends revolving around treasures of a long lost empire, and it was also true that he took up the dig job looking  _ specifically _ for an item that yielded magical, restorative powers. Those were merely rumours that Dullahan had foolishly latched onto, a sliver of hope for his otherwise lost cause.

“Does it cure ailments? I heard it did.”

Aht solemnly shook her head, an act disturbing, coming from a sorceror. Dullahan didn’t want to stay on this topic any longer than he needed to, and swiftly changed the subject once more.

“So what do you do as a shaman?”

The child’s wide grin returned, lightening the wagon’s mood almost immediately. “I look for lost souls, and I send them home!” She paused. “Your world... has no Mana?”

Well, he was at least up for discussing about the technicalities of ‘his world’, as the case may be. He was sincerely doubting he shared the same world as Vainqueur, as well. “Yeah. I don’t think there’ll be that many bloody wars back home if we had such absurd sorcery.” ... Or it could probably cause different problems, like what Vainqueur faced, but still.

“How do you breathe?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“We Satyros believe that we replenish Mana from the land. The bread you eat, the water you drink. The air you breathe.” She pointed at Dullahan’s half-eaten bread, as if to emphasize the point. While it was true that the meals he had here had an additional, airy feeling to it, he hadn’t thought much about it.

“... I suppose with my lungs?” Dullahan said, shrugging.

Aht pouted. “Do you know what happens when people run out of Mana?” 

Right. That was something she omitted during her lecture session earlier. She continued, having expected that Dullahan couldn’t come up with the correct answer.

“They die. They turn into sand.” A pause. “And you have no Mana. You’re supposed to be dead. But you’re not, because you’re not a lost soul.”

_ I am, technically, _ Dullahan sighed inwardly.

“I’ll bring you to see Eruca,” Aht said, holding her hands to her head in frustration. “Maybe she can explain better. You’re not normal. You don’t belong here.”

Dullahan gave the child a deadpan stare. “I know that much,” he said grimly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dullahan paused, then took off his bandanna; no matter the circumstances, it was unbecoming for a yeoman to present a clothed head to a ruler."

By the time the wagon rolled into Granorg territory, it was dawn on the third day. 

Dullahan quietly watched Aht as she slept peacefully, tired from her animated overnight storytellings of her adventures with Queen Eruca three years ago. More admirably, Elm had been at the front seat for  _three days_ ,  and yet, she still seemed alert and ready to lop his head off. 

The man himself, however, refrained from sleeping altogether.

There had been a time when he had to live with insomnia, but Dullahan had always thought that it was soon to be a thing of the past. Ever since the Sand Fortress, however, he couldn’t bring himself to get any shut-eye at all. His mind morbidly made a joke about him sleeping  _forever,_ effectively ruining his already foul mood further.

He decided to distract himself by turning to the view outside, instead, and he was glad that he did.

Spanning across the unnaturally dried steppes was the royal capital of Granorg. From their slightly elevated path down the carriageway into the stone city walls, Dullahan breathed in the sweet smell of familiar civilisation; one that he could associate with. The air brought to him also the smell of freshly baked bread, together with the joyous voices of children at play. 

Dullahan idly observed the architectural designs. Masonry had always been a time consuming craft, and was reserved only for the most wealthy. More importantly, it was mostly utilised by cathedrals for their lavishing and gargantuan structures; or castles, for fortification. And it took them a standard of ten to thirty years on average-- with manpower not being an issue-- for building just one siege-worthy fortress.

If Alistel was the city of metal, then surely Granorg was the ancient city of exquisitely carved stone. 

_Surely they built all these with the help of Mana,_ Dullahan mused. 

The mood was much livelier than Alistel, as well. Nearby, he could hear the bargaining of merchants and shoppers, eager to strike only the most worthwhile of deals. Dullahan mentally thanked Marco for the suggestion; if there was a central point where all knowledge gathered, it was going to be here. It was Dullahan’s first reassuring sign that he was finally going to find a way home. 

As the cart continued down the main road towards the castle, however, Dullahan noted a slightly more depressing sight; soldiers, seemingly segregated into different groups based on at least two sash colours,  and on edge with those outside of their circles.

_Politics._

Dullahan sighed.  _Guess some struggles are the same, regardless of whether our realms have magical shenanigans or not._

Elm dutifully nudged Aht awake as they approached the castle gates, and after a quick word with the guards, the humble cart was within the castle’s domain. Aht could barely contain her sleepiness, yawning and wiping at her eyes, and occasionally slapping her own cheeks with her palms. 

It was a while later that they were escorted to a holding room, having been informed that the queen was in a session with the nobles. Aht smiled reassuringly at Dullahan, as if hoping that he would relax before meeting with a sovereign.

Truth be told? It wasn’t the idea of having an audience with a monarch that irate him; he was just tired, and impatient. He wanted sleep, and he was denied sleep. As much as the glorious view of Granorg enticed him to feel better, his thoughts randomly floated back to his home-- his  _true_ home. And he was eager to find any means necessary to be reunited with his family once more.

Dullahan paused, then took off his bandanna; no matter the circumstances, it was unbecoming for a yeoman to present a clothed head to a ruler.

As expected, Dullahan found himself-- and the two Satyros-- in the throne room, with the monarch seated at the edge of the large hall. The blond hardly paid attention to the lavish tapestry and well-armed guards; he was unarmed, and he literally had no idea what to expect from this encounter. 

Or, perhaps, he was being sucked in by the sheer aura of authority of the queen, her steely eyes meeting his own lethargic ones. “Greetings, Your Majesty,” Dullahan offered courteously. 

As tired as he was, Dullahan sensed confusion and shock coming from the monarch, her brow furrowing ever so slightly in apparent disbelief. 

It was gone as soon as it came, however.

“... I received your message, Aht, Elm,” Queen Eruca spoke, withdrawing a parchment from the table next to her. “And this is the man in question?” The two Beastkind nodded in unison, then they glanced at the armed guards stationed within the hall. 

The queen dismissed them with a wave. As some of the guards passed by him, throwing Dullahan with their ever-appraising gaze, he noted that the guards were discussing in hushed tones about his attire and looks, even as they made their way to the exit. If Dullahan could hazard a guess, it was probably a remark on how a damn Cygnan was being graced by the queen’s presence, or whatever variation of that. 

Soon, only five of them remained-- the queen’s lady assistant included. 

The queen’s posture was noticeably tense as she seemed to ponder what to say. The first predictable question came. “I need to hear this from you in detail: How did you obtain the Black Chronicle?” 

Dullahan raised an eyebrow.  _The book before the man, eh? You sure have your priorities right,_ he mused inwardly. “As I had mentioned to your colleagues at the Sand Fortress, I was under the employ of King Edmund to help excavate a newly discovered site. The book was merely one of many of the things we have uncovered from an age long past.” Dullahan watched for the queen’s expression.

She didn’t buy it. King Edmund meant  _nothing_ to her, as expected.

Dullahan sighed audibly, his impatience showing. “With due respect, Your Majesty, I seek only your libraries. I pose no threat to you, your nation, or the continent of Vainqueur. Should you desire it, you may have the Black Chronicle.”  _Even if they confiscated it, I could just look for it again if I find out that it could send me home._

_My priority now is to look for traces of Alanborough in their archives, and information on the Black Chronicle; it’s obvious that they’re unwilling to share anything with me first-hand._

The blonde monarch turned slightly to her assistant, speaking in whispers that didn’t travel far. “You may leave,” the assistant hollered, her moderately high pitched tone echoing across the room. “The queen wishes to speak only to Lady Aht and Lady Elm. In the meantime, I shall escort you to the public library.” 

Dullahan eyed the woman suspiciously, but said nothing as he followed her out of the room, leaving the three ladies within. 

\--------------

“What seems to be the problem, Lad- I mean, Queen Eruca?” Elm started, her voice slightly grazed with concern. “You could’ve just have ordered him executed, and I would’ve gladly done so on the spot.”

Aht folded her arms next to Elm, looking at her bodyguard with utmost disapproval. “How many times do I have to say? No violence, Elm!” the shaman squealed. 

“No, ladies, we have more than one problem,” Eruca started, biting her lips as she let her worry showed before her two friends. “Firstly, he was not governed by the laws of Mana.” She watched as Aht nodded profusely at the statement, knowing that the Granorg royal, with their talent in Mana manipulation, possessed a gift to Mana sight akin to the Satyros. 

“Secondly, I still have in my possession the Black Chronicle.”

The two stared at her in return. 

“What?!” Elm exclaimed, rummaging through her satchel, bringing the Black Chronicle into full view. The elder Satyros gingerly handed the book to Eruca for inspection. 

“B-but how...?” Aht shook her head repeatedly in confusion. Eruca, too, shook her head in response as she looked at the ancient book in her hands. She had held the Black Chronicle twice in her lifetime, and yet, her memories associated with those two events were sufficient for her to recollect its textures and etchings on the cover all too well. 

This was real.

Eruca took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down as she stood, reaching for a chasm in the stone walls behind the throne. It creaked and hummed with Flux influence before dispersing, revealing a hidden compartment housing her copy of the Black Chronicle; the very one that Heiss used, three years ago.

_There were two of them._

“... And lastly,” Eruca’s voice cracked, a hand reaching to conceal her lips. “By the cruel hand of fate, I have met  _yet another man_ that looked  _just_ like my dear brother.”


	9. Chapter 9

The public library was smaller than expected. 

Before Dullahan was a room cramped full of books, approximately six aisles and shelves lining each side. Judging from the lighting and accessibility of the library, the royal family seemed to have no interest in sharing its’ hoarded knowledge with the public. A shame, as Dullahan had always been an advocate of public education.

He walked down each aisle at least once, glancing through the titles, authors, and years, just to have a feel of their archiving system. As expected, those within these walls were only well-vetted, Court-approved publications; he was not going to find anything too in-depth here.

Dullahan strategised his research, picking up broad introductory titles on geography, history and Mana. He steered well clear of the political commentaries, having no interest in meddling with the affairs of Vainqueur any further.

Dealing with one monarch was more than enough.

At the library counter near the entrance, Dullahan noticed that his escort-- the queen’s assistant-- had settled herself down, her eyes sharp, yet pensive as she observed his every movement. Her robes could easily pass her off as a member of a monastic movement; and yet, based on the thick book that she had laid down on the counter before her, she was quite possibly a scholar... or an adept Mana spellcaster.

Given what a small girl like Aht could muster, Dullahan had absolutely no doubts as to what this woman might be capable of the moment he showed any signs of suspicious activity.

The blond flipped through the first book, skimming the pages of the geographical text. Alistel. Granorg. Forga. Celestia. Cygnus. Names of the plains, cliffs, and mountain ranges. No mentioning of a continent different from Vainqueur’s.

Remnants of an old empire, scattered all across the continent.

_... Wait just a minute. _

Remnants? Lost civilisation?

Dullahan’s skimming sped up as he attempted to trace for the name of the lost kingdom. None. The text on history had a simple paragraph on how they were the masters of Mana manipulation, and how the old world prospered under their leadership. But there were no names, no figures, no traces of prominent figures from that age.

154 years marked the anniversary years of when Granorg was founded, but by then, the empire had already fallen.

_ The name was deliberately removed from history. _

He turned to the woman seated at the counter, his own eagerness stopping him from looking through the books before him, practically demanding for the answers to be served  _ immediately. _

“Lady--”

“Marie.”

“Lady Marie.” Dullahan raised the text before him, his eyes returning Marie’s gaze, and no longer on the book. His eyes blurred; they were no longer working. “What is the name of this empire that once ruled the continent?”

Marie’s blonde locks swayed slightly as she sighed.  “ _That’s_ what you want to know? Unfortunately, nobody does.”

A quick  _ tch _ escaped Dullahan’s lips, and he flipped at the pages, frustrated once more. Things were coming together, but not as quickly as he had hoped to. King Edmund’s excavation crew was ordered to unearth otherworldly rewards to be claimed by his regime, but his own nation’s monastic movements had been obsessive enough to have been documenting their events throughout their eight hundred years of history.

Eight hundred years after the fall of a mythical empire.

Dullahan shook his head, attempting to clear it from the fog of weariness weighing down on him. Does this mean that he was in the past? That would match the calendar year. Did that mean that the Black Chronicle had the ability to traverse through  _ time? _ That did not explain the existence of Mana.  _ Or does it? _

_ No. Stop. You’re getting ahead of yourself. Stop overthinking without proof. _

The books here were not to be sufficient to answer those questions.  _ I need to find their private libraries, and fast, before I drive myself nuts from the lack of sleep. _

He could almost  _feel_ sleep compelling him, but the moment he tried by leaning against the desk, he was wide awake again from adrenaline, fearful of his night terrors returning. There was also something wrong with the air in the castle, the air being so thick that a deep breath was sufficient to set his mind into overdrive.

He couldn’t stand it.

======

Aht scurried down the corridors as Elm furthered discussions with Eruca onto matters pertaining to Granorgnite and Celestian politics, eager to get away from the adult talk. Elm had told her that she should enjoy whatever childhood time that she had left, and Aht wholeheartedly agreed to the statement. She knew, after all, that she could not remain as a child for too long; lest the world turned into sand before she was capable of doing anything.

She had once raised the matter to Eruca out of sheer concern-- and Eruca only told her not to worry, and that she would make sure the desertification won’t worsen... and the Ritual would not be used any longer.

_ She’s acting just like Stocke! _ the Satyros huffed.

She knew Eruca had no friends within these castle walls, as well.

The child spun into the library, but she groaned immediately at the sight of the towering stack of books next to Dullahan.

“Ah, Lady Aht,” Marie whispered, beckoning for the Satyros to come closer. “You shouldn’t be here. He might be dangerous.”

Aht shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she whispered back, cupping her hand next to her mouth and leaning in near Marie’s ear. “He has no Mana! He’s harmless.” She could see the typical adult-disagreeing-with-her kind of look on Marie, now, obviously skeptical about a child suggesting that a grown man being harmless. Marie’s features softened, and Aht could see the appeal as to why Eruca had been so fond of this particular servant.

“You should rest. You had a long trip, right? I’ll send for someone to introduce you to your sleeping quarters.”

Aht folded her arms. “I’ve been here often enough, Marie. I know my way. And I’m not tired. I slept lots.”

“... Alright, what do you want to do?”

The child pointed over to Dullahan. “I’m bringing him out.”

“What! You can’t--”

“Eruca ordered you to  _ observe _ him, not  _ lock him up _ _!_ So if you tag along, you’ll be doing your job just fine!”

“Do you know what the Queen will--”

“I’ll take responsibility!” Aht shouted, and that jolted Dullahan enough to knock a few books over.

The children. The children were there, quietly watching from a corner.

The same ones that followed Stocke.

Aht’s heart skipped a beat.  _ I need to get him away from them. _


	10. Chapter 10

Eruca rubbed at her face with an empty palm, while with her other hand she noted down the summary of her earlier discussion with Elm. 

The last three years were pure hell, as far as Eruca could remember.

She shook her head frantically in her private study. Why was she thinking of the past  _ now _ _,_ at such crucial juncture? Less time spent on reminiscing meant that she would have more time for pouring effort into the desert rejuvenation research. Politics, however, had been dogging at her every corner.

Her tense relations with Prime Minister Raul and King Garland was entirely circumstantial, given that the Parliament had an excellent strategist and lord speaker-- Lord Marcus-- who had timed their collective actions to coincide with any international meetings and lower her credibility as Granorg’s ruling monarch. Her sole saving grace was that the policies that  _she insisted_ on providing to her citizens-- social welfare-- had been left largely untouched and executed, making her generally liked by her people.

Granted, most of her popularity stemmed from the nation’s collective hatred for her stepmother and father’s reign; the sheer contrast in the style of leadership was obvious.

Ernst could have done a better job than her, regardless.  _ Because he was educated from young for this, _ Eruca thought sourly.  _ I... am not. _

Eruca respected Lord Marcus a lot as a politician, and deep down, she knew that he had been consistently right on his and the Parliament’s push for democratic freedom. If the world was not on the brink of destruction, she would have willingly let go of her reign, and let the voting power of the majority run the nation. In a way, that made Lord Marcus a more frightening opponent than Count Selvan would have ever been.

Now was, however, not the time for that. She needed the resources, and her powers as a monarch to make this work.

In an attempt to stop the Parliament from controlling her schedule, she had agreed with Elm that her next trip to Celestia would be a last minute announced affair. She trusted the Parliament would do well in managing the nation while she was not around-- as they were eager to prove that they no longer needed a sovereign head.

Eruca’s eyes roved to the foreigner’s copy of the Black Chronicle on her table.  _One additional problem to address. Will this never end?_ Almost hesitantly, she reached for the book, taking this quiet opportunity to inspect it in detail. Flipping through, she noticed that it was being used  physically  as a real book, with notations and scribblings over at least ten to twenty pages’ worth of notes. Eruca squinted harder.

These were journal entries, not notes.

_ The foreigner’s? _ Was it even possible to write on a book of Flux? She supposed that it was not possible, but the truth of the matter was that the royal family never dared touch the artifacts, save for the times when they were needed for the Ritual. Not even her father did, being power-obsessed and intimidating that he was.

The writing was neatly arranged, and it documented short summaries of the foreigner’s travels in Vainqueur. She noted that he missed not one day in his recordings-- quite possibly to keep track of time passed in his own familiar terms. For a man that looked so similar to her brother, she had no issues telling Dullahan apart from Ernst, unlike her first meeting with Stocke; yet, the similarity in features was undeniable.

She ran a hand across the first page, injecting a tiny amount of Flux. The Chronicle resonated in response, revealing the familiar markings recording the purpose and general description of the book, and the past lives of previous Sacrifices...

... Except that it did not stretch beyond the first page. Oddly pristine,  _ this _ Black Chronicle was blank, as if it was never used for the Ritual.

Eruca frowned as her mind slipped into speculation.  _This would mean that he’s from the past. Is that even possible...?_ She heard no details on the use of the Chronicles from Ern- Stocke, even as she watched him disappear into the void. She-- and none of his closest comrades-- knew what happened to him. The Ritual  _was_ completed; it was just never known whose soul it was that was used. … If it really was Stocke, the White Chronicle would have found its way back to the royal family. Aht once questioned her on the existence of a pair of ethereal twins, the ones that supposedly guided Stocke in the ways of the White Chronicle.

Her meeting with the twins were rare, and even then, their focus had never been on the wielders of the Black Chronicle, even if they did play a role in the old empire’s larger schemes to sustain the continent. Whether it was due to the Black Chronicle’s past or out of less empathy towards the surviving family member, Eruca could never be sure.

And now Stocke was missing-- she  _willed herself to believe that he was just missing_ \--  and the White Chronicle with him.

Two soft knocks on her study snapped Eruca’s attention back to reality. “It’s open,” she said, allowing enough of her voice to travel to the door. Evening light sifted its way into the study, effectively announcing to her that it was going to be another late night, having worked on so little for the day.

“M’lady,” Marie peeked in, throwing a simple gesture as she closed the door behind her. It was common by now that her trusted assistant had dropped courtesies when they were alone; Eruca had no need to be reminded constantly of her role as a monarch.

“How goes the foreigner’s misadventures?” Eruca inquired.

“Well...” Marie hesitated slightly, but continued. “Lady Aht insisted to bring him out of the castle, a-and I followed them,” Marie ended her statement uncomfortably, as if expecting punishment.

“What,  _ Aht _ did?” the monarch chuckled. “That does sound like what she would do. She is quite fond of the foreigner as well, is she not?”  _ Not surprising, considering how similar he looked to Stocke. _

Marie breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes. There was a... slight mishap at the marketplace,” Eruca tensed briefly, “but it’s nothing to be concerned of. Our man collapsed from exhaustion, is all.” The monarch sighed, and Marie couldn’t help but smile at her lady’s behaviour. “I arranged for him to share a guest quarters with Lady Aht and Lady Elm, if you do not mind.”

“It’s fine. Elm can handle any trouble that may arise,” the royal noted.

Marie gave a quick bow. “But what he had revealed so far is rather fascinating.” Eruca leaned closer on her desk, waiting to hear more. “... He showed immense interest in the matters of the empire. Most of the titles taken off the shelves were related to Vainqueur, as well.

“There is still room for speculation, but I do not think he is lying, m’lady.”

Eruca waved the Chronicle’s journal entries at Marie. “I can’t help but to agree. What’s your take on this?”

Marie took a while to look through the entries, before carefully closing the Chronicle. “... Seems legitimate. He hadn’t had the opportunity to doctor his entries after he came into contact with Lady Aht and Lady Elm, after all.

“ ... But his writing... It’s in Imperial script, is it not?”

Good, I’m not the only one. Eruca nodded. “This is running deeper than we think, Marie. A different force is afoot, and I have not a clue who, or what it may be.”


	11. Chapter 11

“-- Maxwell.”

Dullahan’s vision was blank; a glaring white. The voice of a child-- a boy-- beckoned him, as if inviting him to step into a foreign land. Not that he wasn’t already in one.

“Off-worlder... Eric Maxwell.” This time, it was a girl’s. For a brief moment, Dullahan thought it was Aht, but he hadn’t remembered revealing his real name to anyone on Vainqueur. “Seek the underground libraries of Granorg,” the girl spoke, her voice ephemerally calming. “Seek your path home... And your path to the bearer of the White Chronicle.”

He took two blind steps forward, his boot making contact with marble. His steps echoed loudly in the void, and Dullahan soon found himself in a large space, occupied by air and suspended, nonsensical flights of endless stairs. Two pairs of eyes stared at him in return, twin children-- and Dullahan barely had the time to make eye contact before he jolted awake.

_ What the heck was that? _

Dullahan quickly took note of his immediate surroundings, trying to recall the exact preceding events. He had been dragged out of the castle on the childish whims of Aht, his current caretaker. It had effectively ended his research--

_ The libraries. Underground libraries. _

Dullahan crept off of the feathered bed quietly, making as little noise as possible. Aht lay uncomfortably in a chair right next to the bed, looking well exhausted from their little misadventures in the marketplace. Almost instinctively, he reached for the child’s cloak, helping her rub away her drool, and adjusted her hooves so she wouldn’t fall off the chair.

Pushing reminders of his daughter Rosalyn out of his head, Dullahan headed to the table, packing ink and parchment into his satchel.

The blond eyed the palm-sized wooden horse set on the desk; the souvenir he bought for his daughter at the market. He packed that as well.

Luckily for him, the guest quarters was carpeted; his boots made no sound at all even as he packed. A quick glance to one of the other two beds in the room informed him of the presence of Elm, a surprisingly heavy snorer... But he doubted that she was a heavy sleeper.

As he inched the door open, he took one more glance at Aht. Dullahan sighed inwardly and draped his cloak over the child before disappearing down the hallways.

Dullahan’s experience in castle sieges-- and an earlier recollection of the Granorg Castle’s layout-- lead him towards the courtyard, occupied by a field of pure green. While remaining in the shadows, the night breeze was stunningly refreshing for him; he knew he needed it after just a few hours of forced shuteye.  _ Think, _ he told himself.  _ Where would you construct a private library? Which tower would it be under? _

He blinked. A child’s form seemed to be signalling at him from the other end of the courtyard, a hand indicating to her right.

_ If this is a trap, then I’m a dead man, _ Dullahan noted wryly, edging his way unnoticed past two patrolling sentries and disappearing into the prison tower.

\-------

Dullahan took the first excruciating half-hour in trying to consolidate the burning questions from his earlier research at the public library.

The most glaring issue was his earlier theory on this being the past.  _ I’ve never once heard of any of these nations, much less the continent of Vainqueur _ _._ If the lost empire they shared were really the one and the same, Dullahan should be able to identify it by name, the one that they knew in his time: the Capitolina Empire.

That question was indirectly answered when he stumbled upon an old text; if the date was to be believed, it was one written several years after the founding of Granorg. The contents of  _this_ library were very much less censored, and basically fit the bill of what Dullahan was looking for.

The Black Chronicle was one of a pair of magical artifacts inherited from the fallen empire, and were the foundation of the Granorg royal lineage.

_... Foundation? _

Dullahan kept reading. The book spoke of the imperial sin, and Granorg’s duty to repent using the two artifacts. It spoke of a ritual…

Dullahan took note of the keywords, and narrowed his scope into that general direction, having figured out now that the Black Chronicle was his way here-- and his way home.

\------

He should not be very much surprised by anything Vainqueur was throwing at his face at this point, but yet, here he was, staring dumbfounded at how ridiculous this continent was.

Vainqueur was a dying continent, with desertification looming as the end of the world. The cause? The imbeciles of their lost empire.

The foundation of Granorg was an answer to the desertification itself, using members of the royal household as tools and offerings to the land, appeasing the land from continuing its destruction. This seemed quite similar to Raul and Garland’s claims of Granorg’s anti-desertification weapon, if any.  _This_ was the true nature of the  _Event?_ Truly disgusting.

It was thoroughly brutal and animalistic, but this only confirmed Dullahan’s suspicions. His world and Vainqueur’s shared the same imperial heritage; they fell due to their own pride and overestimation of their abilities in a long lost art, and threatened the fate of the continent in return. One way or another, the  empire in question was Capitolina.

But this hardly made sense. Mana was non-existent on his home continent of Terrano-- and Terrano’s extensive historical records showed no traces of this sorcery. What they  _did_ have were unfounded mythologies on Capitolina’s excess in power and authority-- and the long lost art of magic.  _ Was that it? Did Terrano rise from Vainqueur’s ashes, reborn from the end of the balance of Mana? _

That didn’t quite fit the bill either, considering how well-documented Capitolina was in Terrano as compared to Vainqueur.  _ It’s not like we could’ve re-discovered all the long-lost knowledge. _

Dullahan could feel his confusion and frustration building once more.  _ And this is excluding the appearance of the twins, _ he recalled wryly. Was he starting to be influenced by Mana and gain magical powers?  _ Or perhaps I’m going mad. An apt end for a murderer. _

He willed himself back to reality, focusing on finding methods of using the Black Chronicle. From the looks of it, only the royals themselves knew how to use the artifact properly; he assumed there was some sort of Mana mechanism that taught them the use. One thing was for sure, however-- and that was basically the nail in the coffin for his suspicions-- the Black Chronicle had the ability to warp time.

Dullahan felt sick.

\------

Eruca scrambled to her feet at the sound of the windows to her private study being forced open, just two hours before dawn broke. The foreigner, in all his absurdity, climbed in, throwing a few books that she recognised very well unceremoniously onto her desk. “I think you’ve got some explaining to do, Your Majesty.”

Eruca swallowed. The foreigner was no longer the courteous man he presented himself at the audience room earlier; it was the face of an exhausted, exasperated, and desperate man, who will not be stopped by  _anything_ to get his answers.


	12. Chapter 12

The two stood at arm’s length from each other, exchanging cold, hard stares, as crackles from the fireplace permeated the room.

“Not going to call for your guards?” Dullahan stated, feeling sweat gathering on his palms; already regretting his own brashness. It was rightfully idiotic to intrude on a ruler this way, and if he had done the same to King Edmund, Dullahan would not have retained his head for this long. He hadn’t thought this through.

Queen Eruca eyed him warily, but her gaze was steady. Her grip tightened on her fur mantle. “I would like to hear what you have to say,” she offered, a hand indicated to the seat before her table. Dullahan ignored her courtesy.

“Alright then,” Dullahan bit his lip briefly, “have you brought me here? Why have you brought me to Vainqueur?”

The queen’s brows furrowed. “I did no such thi-”

“Lie to me not, _Your Majesty_ ,” Dullahan hissed, slamming a fist onto the table, pointing to the Black Chronicle. “This _monstrosity_ is the direct consequence of your ancestors. Warping _time?_ Are you well? Are _our_ ancestors _mad?”_

She jumped slightly from Dullahan’s outburst, but quickly regained composure and shrugged. “They might as well have been. ” There was something about the way her eyes moved, but Dullahan was too annoyed to read further into her body language. The blond flipped open one of the older manuscripts he had borrowed from the underground library, one specifically on the royal family’s role in manipulating the twin artifacts. His fingers rapped on the page in irritation.

“You know how to send me back. Send me back. You can keep the damn book.” It was harder for him to get proper words out, now, with his mind running at full speed into an emotional wall. _There’s no stopping the nightmares-- I saw them, and I will only continue to see more of them._

Dullahan looked towards the fire briefly, thoroughly distracted by his lethargic train of thoughts. _What if I can never return home?_

_I want to see Elena and Rosalyn again._

Rushed footsteps echoed the hall as Dullahan realised slowly how grave his mistake was; and how Eruca was looking at him, slightly sympathetic. Or perhaps disgust? He could no longer tell.

There was only one thing he could do.

\----------

“Unhand Her Majesty, you cretin!” Marie shouted, bursting into the room with half a dozen of royal guards, swords and crossbows poised to strike. “Do you have a _death wish_?” the woman’s hand whirled at the air before her, calling forth Mana to do her bidding. The air shimmered and very soon, the room’s temperature took a sudden dive.

His grip on the monarch’s throat grew slightly tighter. Oddly, the young queen did not budge one bit, nor did she panic at being taken as a hostage. It was either she was very used to this predicament, or she had such confidence in her guards that Dullahan did not pose a threat to her. “Stay down. Or the queen’s neck breaks,” the blond called out, his voice dripping venom for the first time since his arrival in Vainqueur.

The guards visibly hesitated, their swords gradually lowering. Marie’s threat with her frost magic did not.

_“ Down_ _,_ scholar!” his voice bounced off the private study’s stone walls, adding to the weight of his already lethal threat. Marie winced as she dropped her spellcasting, raising two hands in silent resignation.

“Y-you have nowhere to go, foreigner,” the queen croaked through his grip. “We can still negotiate.”

“I’m _done_ with being pushed around and being left in the dark, Queen Eruca. It’s simple; you send me home, and I disappear. There’s simply _no_ reason for you to refuse.”

Dullahan felt the queen swallow. “I have not the means to send you back.”

“You _liar._ ” Dullahan was beyond the point of caring, now. “Your texts spoke of you, your royal family, as being the only ones capable of using _that_ _.”_ He gestured at the Black Chronicle, still sitting untouched in the conflict. “Pick it up, use your god-forsaken _sorcery_ _,_ and send me _home_ _.”_  

“This is your last chance to reconsider your threat, good sir. Unhand me.”

“No.” Something was _very wrong_ , but it wasn’t apparent to Dullahan _what_ was. The queen’s guards were surprisingly docile; and Marie was looking at her liege all this while, as if communicating on pure eye contact.

It wasn’t until he felt something poking at his right leg, slightly above his knee, that it finally clicked. He tried to move, but his boot was encased in thin, magical ice; the drop in room temperature was merely the stage set by Marie for the queen’s own arsenal.

Pain ripped through his thigh as the resounding _crack_ of a fired flintlock echoed in Dullahan’s ears, sending him off his feet-- ice and all. His grip on the monarch loosened; as did his grip on his sole hope of ever returning home. Dullahan raised his head towards the queen; his hazed vision could clearly see the glint off the barrel of the flintlock, still smoking from the earlier impact, tucked right under the monarch’s cloak. 

More than any other scar he bore, this new one _burnt_ in its immediate aftermath from the sheer _speed_ of the projectile as it passed through. His hands reached to blindly clutch at the wound; the bullet took a portion of his flesh with it. It took all his willpower just to bite back a scream.

Without a doubt, they were going to kill him. He brought to them the Black Chronicle; he foolishly revealed his origins; he naively let them know about Rosalyn.

_“Elena...”_ Dullahan choked.

\-----

A whirl of movements dominated the next few seconds.

Eruca’s royal guards were on the foreigner in no time after her Mana shot, swords and greaves ensuring that he was not given any further opportunity to move even an inch.

She looked down at the man’s face, looking utterly devastated and defeated. Eruca winced visibly. _We could have avoided this,_ she mouthed to him, then promptly turned to Marie. “We’ll talk again in the morning.” The monarch walked with her full grace, head held high, and closed the distance with her assistant. “Put him to sleep,” Eruca whispered.

_“ Still?_ _”_ Marie noted carefully. “He just committed assault on the crown!” she shot back in her own, low tones.

Eruca’s determined nod, however, closed off all avenues for negotiations.


	13. Chapter 13

The stench of blood was thick on Dullahan’s nostrils, fanning adrenaline and keeping him far from the comfort of darkness. The few windows the guards passed as they dragged him across the floor streamed sunlight into the comparatively darker corridors. Behind him, he heard the distinctive footsteps of Marie, one of wooden clogs against dried stone, blending with the scraping of sollerets of those in front of him.

His belongings were no longer with him. A dead man had no use for material goods.

Following far behind them was the pacing, bloodied corpse of Lord Spencer in full armour, rusted broadsword in hand, eternally patient, waiting for his turn. The spectral blade screeched across the floor, the wielder’s bloodied red iris-- with the other socket devoid of an eye-- trained onto the back of Dullahan’s head.

_No. Please, gods, no._

He felt his weight crash against something solid, but his eyes remained fixated at the doorway where they had just entered from. The room was well illuminated by the three, large stained glass windows overhead, bringing in translucent blindness of the morning sun into the large hall.

Lord Spencer remained in the darkness of the corridor, the end of his broadsword finding its way into the cobblestone; old, wiry hands rested on its pommel. Through the large, grey cloak, Dullahan could almost see the gaping wound he left on his lord’s jugular.

_No, leave me alone,_  he begged soundlessly at the phantom.  _I still have family to look after._  The phantom flashed a grin-- an otherworldly grin, decaying teeth showing through rotten lips-- and looked towards the other end of the hall, at a corner where light did not reach. Dullahan dared not look.  _It’s alright,_  Dullahan repeated.  _It’s alright. They won’t come into the light. They never do. They won’t dare to. Heather won’t--_

A child suddenly burst through Lord Spencer’s image, a strong reminder that it was nothing but an illusion. Intrigued, the corpse’s eyes fell onto the horned child, following her trail.

The phantom started to move, dislodging the broadsword, carrying it with a right hand much akin to wielding a dagger. There as a separate set of footsteps from the other end of the hall, coming from where Lord Spencer’s gaze had fallen earlier. The steps were loud, echoing in Dullahan’s head; and it carried the most peculiar quality of shuffling and dragging.

They came into the light, and they were approaching  _him._  Or worse, the child.

Despite it all, Dullahan failed to muster the willpower to move even an inch. It took all he had to even wrench his eye contact from Lord Spencer onto the other figure; one that he sorely missed, but couldn’t forgive himself for. Dullahan let out a weak grin at the man, whose six feet, three inches was imposing, even after death.  _Guess I’ll be joining you, Campbell._

“Dullahan!” someone shouted in his ears, shaking at his shoulders with extreme vigour.

“... What?” Dullahan replied distractedly, his voice barely above a whimper. Campbell’s features turned to one of empathy during their brief exchange, and turned his hazel-eyed attention towards Dullahan’s leg. The blond slowly, but surely, followed his ex-squire’s gaze.

The sight that greeted him was one of panic-- from others, most of which he didn’t know. Dullahan noted dimly that red was all over the bed he was on-- when did he get here?-- and Aht was right next to him, busy looking between his leg and his face, her own features looking ready to explode from anxiety.

“Dullahan! Your world! Stop the bleeding! How!” Aht was franticly fidgeting as she said so. When Dullahan failed to come up with a comprehensive solution, the child shook him harder. “You’re going to die!”

_Am I?_  Dullahan wondered, and it took him a few more dull moments before he realised the red was his own blood. Immediately he flinched, his intoxication from the stench gone, leaving behind only searing pain and misery.

“... The horn of a unicorn would be nice,” Dullahan said through seething teeth, an inappropriate joke at the inappropriate time... or timeline, as the case may be. It provoked no response from the tiny crowd, and Dullahan shook his head to clear his thoughts, followed by an attempt to control his breathing.

“... Wine, honey, or urine, any of them,” he voiced unsteadily, unbuckling one of his vambraces. There were hurried shuffling of padded feet nearby thereafter, together with harsh whispers, but Dullahan ignored them. He reached out to the child next to him, grabbing her nearest arm. She visibly winced from the tenacity of his grip, but Dullahan’s eyes were unfocused. “Listen.”

The child nodded quickly.

“Put pressure… with cloth. It should stop.” Dullahan struggled to recall the specifics. “Get the wound bound. Keep me warm, and beware of my violent tendencies.” He bit his lip. “... And if I no longer wake, you will do your best to inform my family.” He was not taking any chances.  _It’s my only wish._

Before the child could manage a response, Dullahan felt a waterskin shoved into his free hand. Now shaking, he brought his hand closer to smell the liquid.

Wine. Dullahan managed a sigh. From his perspective, the  _worst_  of the three.

He bit on the freed vambrace, not wanting to bite his own tongue off. He took a deep breath through his nostrils; as soon as he felt the cool liquid introducing a second searing sensation to the already burning wound, darkness came just as swiftly.

========

Aht physically dragged Marie towards the queen’s study, where the mayhem happened a few hours earlier. When she pushed the door open unceremoniously, Eruca and Elm were already there. The young Satyros let go of her grip on the queen’s adjutant, and kicked the door closed behind her.

Aht folded her arms, face puffing with intense disapproval as Marie broke the news of what happened down in the infirmary to Eruca and Elm, whose reactions were nothing short of being surprised.

“I  _told_  you he was harmless, but you didn’t listen!” Aht declared, pointing a finger at Eruca. “You almost  _killed_  him, Eruca!”

Eruca shook her head in disbelief. “I didn’t think-”

“Our medicines, our healing magic, works on restoring balance to a person’s Mana! Cleaning wounds, sealing them!” Aht shuddered at her recollection of the scene. She had been summoned by one of the wardens of the infirmary, claiming that they needed her extensive control in Mana to help one of their patients.

It hadn’t come as a huge surprise to her when she realised none of her own spells worked on stopping Dullahan’s wound from spewing blood, as it usually would.

Elm scowled at her lady’s empathy towards the foreigner. “Lady Aht,” the older Satyros began, “do you have any idea what the foreigner had done? He tried to take the queen hostage!”

“Did anyone ask  _why_ _?”_  Aht interjected.

“He assaulted the queen and attempted to force Her Majesty to manipulate the Black Chronicle,” Marie stated frankly. “He was being highly unreasonable. We didn’t have a choice.”

Aht dragged a hoof along the carpet repeatedly, fuming. “Did anyone  _ask why_?”

The three looked at each other, exchanging shrugs. Aht raced across the study, rummaging through the foreigner’s satchel abandoned nearby, slamming a toy horse on the table in front of Eruca. “I dare  _any_  one of you to try and guess! Elm included!”

Elm’s confused look only made Aht more annoyed. “You heard our conversations in the wagon, Elm, or were you too busy trying to think how to kill him?” The child turned to Marie. “Marie, were you thinking, ‘oh, he’s trying to look innocent’ when he bought this toy horse?”

Finally, the child turned to Eruca. “Did you realise how scared and alone he was? Or were you too busy trying to figure out what he may be plotting with the Black Chronicle?

“If this was how you met Stocke for the first time, would you have shot him?”

The silence that followed afterwards was deafening.


	14. Chapter 14

Pristine marble floors, dead air, echoing footsteps... Dullahan knew this place.

He blinked, taking in the nonsensical stairways that stretched beyond the platform he stood on. _Or perhaps not._

“... Well met,” Dullahan greeted the twins before him, folding his arms and frowning. It had just occurred to him that he was standing. _A dream?_

“We meet at last, off-worlder,” the boy began, but made no attempt to close the gap between them. The twins remained seated atop a separate ledge, well beyond Dullahan’s reach. “Surely, you have many questions weighing on your head.”

Dullahan made the pair wait, taking in their physical appearances. This was the first time he had the opportunity to observe them closely, and he intended to take full advantage of it.

The boy bore a stern expression with his tiny frame, his cloak dabbed in orange and streaked in Capitolinan-styled markings. The girl was the same in her purple robes, though she looked slightly more sociable than her brother. Both sported hair of pale brown, pointed ears, and eyes that reflected the color of their robes.

“Let’s begin with introductions, then,” Dullahan suggested, watching their every move.

“I am Teo,” the boy said.

“And I am Lippti,” the girl echoed.

“You are in Historia,” Teo declared, an arm emerging from his cloak, making a wave at the confusing scenery enveloping them. “A world in time’s gulf, created by the power of Flux.”

One of Dullahan’s eyebrow raised. “Your words mean nothing to me. Are you Capitolinans?”

The two visibly froze.

“Where are the rest of your kind? Vainqueur sort of requires your assistance,” Dullahan said with a shrug, lowering himself to the floor to take a seat. It seemed like he was going to be staying for a while. Oddly, that thought did not unnerve him as it usually would.

Not that he looked forward to what awaited him in the world of the living, anyway.

“That... We’re the only ones left,” Lippti replied uneasily, after many glances exchanged with her twin.

“Fair enough.” Dullahan gave them no opportunity to pause. “How did you know my name? I told no one on Vainqueur, nor do I relish using that name again.”

“And yet, your soul identifies itself as Eric Maxwell,” Teo told him. “Deep down, you must still feel like the rightful owner of that name.”

Dullahan rolled his eyes. Spirituality? Magic? The people of Vainqueur believed in such nonsense, yet was armed with such powerful resources. It took him a while to remind himself that these were the same ancestors of Terrano, and dimly realised that he had just insulted his own civilisation in the process.

_Does the Queen know about these two?_ Dullahan wondered. “You’ve led me down to Granorg’s royal underground libraries. What’s your goal?”

Lippti’s voice, though soft, carried over easily to his ears. “We need your help, Maxwell,” she started, “we are seeking two things: the cessation of Vainqueur’s desertification, and the location of the White Chronicle and its current bearer.”

Dullahan blinked. So they _were_ related to the Chronicles. “Sorry, I don’t think I understand.” He gestured at Historia and at the twins. “What is your-- and Historia’s-- relation to the artifacts? Why do you still exist, well over a hundred and fifty years after Capitolina’s downfall?”

Dullahan eyed the way they flinched carefully. His guess was right; Vainqueur’s knowledge of Capitolina was erased on purpose. The fact that he knew the empire by name was unnerving to the twins, even if they were seemingly ethereal monstrosities that transcended the concept of time.

“... We play our part in the Ritual,” Teo said. “That is all we can say on the subject. We are sorry.”

Dullahan decided not to press his chances further. He promptly changed the subject. “Why me, then? You could have easily asked the Queen of Granorg for help. I’m sure she knows the situation better than I do.” He paused. “... Would this also not mean that this Chronicle holder you seek is the Queen’s relative? All the more reason for her to help you out, then.”

“Unfortunately, there were some... unintended hiccups in recent years, making this a delicate situation,” the boy said, waving a hand dismissively. “The help we need can only be given by you specifically, Maxwell.”

Dullahan’s skeptical mood returned. “You _do_ know I have no incentive to aid you two, right? I’m already busy enough as it is.”

“We know. We also know you miss your daughter dearly,” the girl offered sympathetically.

Dullahan’s confidence suddenly took a dive. “... Tell me, how long have you two been watching me?”

“Since you made your presence known in Vainqueur.”

“... Why wait for three weeks before introducing yourself to me, then?” _You could’ve showed up earlier, so that I could explain myself better at the Sand Fortress. Or even better, not get arrested at all. Nor would I be shot by a queen that looked a decade younger than me._

Lippti’s face was an apologetic one. “We are sorry, but your link to Historia is weak,” she explained. “We were hopeful when you decided to travel to Granorg. Mana saturation in the castle is immense; even then, we had to wait until you are not rooted in the world of the conscious.” The child lifted a finger, pointing at Dullahan. “Such as now.”

The man groaned inwardly. _How convenient._

“As such, we offer you here a solution,” Teo raised his voice slightly, commanding the empty space between them, “one that we trust you will deliver. Assist the Queen in finding a way to cease the desertification entirely, and where possible, to locate the White Chronicle.”

“In return, we will look into a way to send you home,” Lippti finished her brother’s offer.

Dullahan’s heart leapt, but quickly contained his excitement. “And the reason you can’t do it yourself is because...”

“Because we no longer have physical presence in Vainqueur.” Lippti remarked, her eyes distant. “Our link to reality had always been through wielders of the paired Chronicles. It would seem that your copy of the Black Chronicle is acknowledged by Historia, as well.”

“So this is essentially coercion,” Dullahan concluded.

“Think of it more as a collaboration, Maxwell; it sounds much better,” the boy responded diplomatically.

The blond sighed and shrugged. “Well then, I’ll see what I can do.” He stood, seemingly ready to leave. _Where_ do _I go?_

_“You have our gratitude, off-worlder.”_

Within seconds, the world around him reverted into blank space, leaving him with darkness.


	15. Chapter 15

The first thing that greeted him was a small gasp.

Dullahan’s grasp on reality came in fragments, as if he was being introduced to his senses for the first time. The repetitive battering of what sounded like stones on windows came next; followed by the smell of a fire, and the pleasant scent of flowers.

Dull, throbbing pain came next, but it was soothed soon after by the touch of a hand on his forehead.

Dullahan was ready to protest with whatever he had when the warm touch left him, but even the pain seemed to go away entirely when he felt a small form embracing him, stifling sobs into his shoulder.

 _Why’re you crying?_  “Pa’s not going anywhere,” Dullahan managed to whisper, willing a hand to pat the back of the child’s head. He patted twice before coming to a horrible realisation.

His eyes shot open, gently prying the child off of him. It took forever for him to sit up on the bed, and yet another forever before the world stopped spinning around him. “... Sorry, I thought you were someone else.” He hid his face in his palms. The sniffing and sobs, he realised, had stopped; but he knew not for better or for worse.

“M-me too,” Aht choked. “I-I thought you were never waking up.”

“... So did I.”

Dullahan dared himself to inspect his surroundings the moment he had his bearings right. The room was solely lighted by a roaring fireplace; he occupied the bed nearest to it. It was nightfall, or rather, it was dark enough to be; the earlier battering sounds came from what seemed like hail on the infirmary’s sturdy glass windows. He was soon interrupted by his dry throat, becoming more of an irritation every passing second.

Aht passed him a glass of fresh water, and Dullahan hastily accepted the offer. “How’re you feeling?” Dullahan caught Aht staring at him as she addressed him, her features etched with worry. No child deserved such worries, especially not when it involved him.

“I’ll live.” Dullahan eyed the lady infirmarian sprawled out at the guest couch next to the entrance, and the silhouettes of two armed guards right outside the doorway. “... So. When’s my public execution?”

Aht slapped at his shoulder. “No! Eruca promised it won’t happen!” she scolded, irritated; but Dullahan could see that her mood soon fell back to a mellow one. “Don’t hate Eruca for this. I think she really wants to know you better, but a lot of complicated things are in the way and-”

“It’s fine. I would’ve done the same,” Dullahan voiced apologetically, a frown finding its way onto his forehead.  _Did I just push Aht between a rock and a hard place?_

_This is what you get for trying to find comfort in an alien world. A child’s tears. You ruined this child’s normal rhythm of life._

“Aht... Why are you helping me? You have better things to do, as a leader of your people,” Dullahan said, shaking his head. “I don’t deserve your help.”

“Because you look just like-” Aht began, but stopped abruptly, putting two hands over her mouth.

“... Like who?”  _Her father?_

“N-nevermind,” the child fidgeted, and began to play with her thumbs. Aht lowered her head to hide her pained expression, but Dullahan managed to catch sight of it regardless. She changed the subject entirely. “Look, I  _am_  the only one now that even has a tiiiiiiiny bit of trust in you! You  _need_  my help!” she huffed. “I made Eruca promise to give you another chance. So no more violence, okay? Stop learning from Elm!”

Dullahan just nodded daftly, not knowing what to reply.

She paused briefly before letting curiosity dominate her features. “... Why did you attack Eruca?”  

Dullahan watched Aht’s expression quietly as he pondered.  _Tough question with a tough audience._  Because the Queen was fooling around with him? He did buy her guards time with the small chat, after all. And he knew that. If he had ended up escaping, instead, he would have been shot on sight by palace guards.

There was also his embarrassing decision to threaten the monarch, fueled by impatience and blind rage, which he did not feel comfortable sharing with a child.

Dullahan phrased his answer carefully. “There are some things better left unanswered, Aht.”

Aht was visibly displeased with his reply.

As much as he would have loved to explain his side of the story, Dullahan could not bear to burden the child further with his own idiocy and dilemma. After all, what good could come out of this?  _It’s not as if you’re not using her to remind yourself of Rosalyn._ The blond shook his head irritably at that thought… and immediately regretted doing so, as the world around him decided to spin once more.

“Ah, er, drink more water! They say it helps you recover better,” Aht offered, the sound of pouring water joining the rough battering of ice against glass overhead. Dullahan murmured a silent thanks.

“So… Mind telling me what happened?”

Aht blinked, her concern resurfacing. “... You mean… You don’t remember?”

“No. I do.”  _I was mildly preoccupied by two unwelcomed visitors, but otherwise, I do._  Dullahan frowned, and checked to ensure that the two in question were not stalking them as he spoke. “I just need to hear it from your point of view.”

“W-well…” the child began, her tail swishing against the feathered bed, deep in thought as she pondered where to begin. “They tried to clean and seal your wound with healing salves, because that is how we usually do it,” Aht’s brows furrowed slightly, “but they didn’t know it won’t work on you.”

“You knew?”

“Of course! I said it before-- Mana is in all things, and is a part of us.” Aht indicated with a hand to her chest as she did. “Medicines and healing magic, they’re external Mana that works to, ah, help your own Mana to cure your wounds,” she said sloppily, and Dullahan could tell that it took all of her vocabulary to try and explain something seemingly so mundane and normal to them to a stranger. “So… You slept, for a week.”

Dullahan digested the piece of information slowly. A week? Really? Dullahan grimaced. He should’ve known, considering he had no access to any of their medicines, but the figure really put things in perspective.  _This means I’m working with ridiculous risks._ As much as he would hate to admit it, he was actually willing to give magical restoration powers a try and take more risks to find his way home. Worse still, this meant that he could not rely on any external help when it came to any form of treatment.  _Guess I’ll have to tread more carefully moving forward._

The man caught the child waving a hand at his face frantically, trying to get his attention. It just occurred to him that he had blanked out briefly. “... I think we should talk about something happier,” Aht said, frowning. “You should leave those thinking things for when you’re better.”

Somehow, Dullahan couldn’t help but to agree. He nodded, emptying his glass.

“I know!” Aht remarked, suddenly excited. She reached into her poncho, withdrawing a small flute. “I’ll play you a song!” She paused. “Does your world know about songs?”

Dullahan could not resist smiling. “Of course I do. Let’s hear it.”

The next few minutes was spent in calm as Dullahan momentarily shelved all his worries away, listening to the charming performance by the child. The tune carried the taste of the same, extra airy quality, like rest of the things he ate in Vainqueur. The room grew slightly warmer at Aht’s tune, as if her music had given new life to the embers. The infirmarian gave an audible yawn before curling back up the couch back to her dream world, apparently satisfied with the warmer change.

Without a doubt, everything the people of Vainqueur did was influenced by Mana. The most Terrano had to offer were their inferior equivalents-- and this included a simple tune played by a child.  _The twins said they want me to help the Queen fight the desertification,_  Dullahan thought idly.  _Does this mean that they know I can do something about it?_

_How long will these shenanigans last before I can even head back? Will anything have changed when I return to Terrano?_

Without much further persuasion, Dullahan decided to doze off.


	16. Chapter 16

Dullahan wasted another two days under the watchful eyes of Aht before managing to get out of the wretched bed. His destination was obvious enough: another audience with the Queen. The guards who escorted him and Aht to the Queen’s study were more on edge than Dullahan last remembered-- no doubt in thanks to his recent attempt for the monarch’s throat.

Morning sun had crept its way into the private study as Dullahan entered it, embracing all in its intimate warmth. He was glad that Granorg was much warmer than Alistel, though the presence of hail two days back was troubling to Dullahan. The Queen sat comfortably at the same table that lay witness to Dullahan’s misdeeds, her posture confident-- as if she had already made her point that she was not one to be trifled with.

And that she had.

Marie dismissed the two escorts, bidding them to close the door behind them. The room was eeriely quiet, only briefly punctuated by the sounds of joyful songbirds. Her eyes were dead cold, and the other adult-- Elm-- shared Marie’s sentiment, standing with her next to the monarch.

Dullahan leaned heavily against his makeshift walking stick, barely a piece of thick, short branch offered by his caretaker. He didn’t bother to mince his words this time; they already knew what kind of character he was at this point. “Seems like I won’t be dying yet, eh?” Dullahan said with a chuckle.

“Yes. Expect no apologies from me,” Eruca replied, her tone level and calm.

Dullahan heaved a satisfied sigh. “I’d begin to doubt you if you did, Your Majesty,” he said with a small smirk. “State your demands.”

“Before we move to that, I would like to hear from you personally based on Aht’s accounts of your findings,” the queen offered. “We have, by your misfortune, been proven that a life can live on without Mana, and a world without Mana exists.” She made a wide swipe across a map laid out before her; a map of the continent. “And it is from a continent different from this one.

“I would like to know how far back you are from to  _not_  have heard of Vainqueur.”

Dullahan blinked. “You mean  _ahead.”_

“Such lies--” Marie began.

 _“Quiet,_  Marie,” Eruca cut her adjutant off; it occurred to Dullahan that they had probably an agreement that only the queen was to do the talking. “But you write in ancient Imperial script. Surely, your timeline is one closer to the Empire than ours.”  

“No. It’s eight hundred years since Capitolina-- this Empire you mentioned-- fell in my home continent of Terrano.” Dullahan shook his head slowly, trying to piece together words to explain his nation’s long history in a nutshell. His audience’s eyes widened, but didn’t interrupt him. “Our saving grace would be our diligent scribes and monasteries, who spent God knows how many endless hours trying to preserve history in books,” Dullahan said, shrugging.  _I should know, for all those endless hours of my childhood spent in front of ancient texts._ “... Why such interest in my side of the story all of a sudden, Your Majesty?”

Eruca rubbed at her chin thoughtfully before clapping both of her hands onto the table. “To business, then,” Eruca huffed, motioning to Marie to bring over a rolled-up parchment. “I wish to seek your services.”

Dullahan froze briefly, trying to wrap his head around the proposition. He was expecting to be the one to convince the queen to accept his aid, not the other way around. While this may seem awfully convenient for his own end goals, Dullahan was beginning to wonder  _just how much more_  the twins were aware of.  _Perhaps they knew she wanted my help, and threw in their offer to sweeten the deal for me? Or were they afraid of me turning the Queen’s offer down?_

Regardless, mythical pair of enigmatic children did not fall under Dullahan’s definition of trustworthiness; thus, he refrained from questioning anyone about the twins’ existence and motives.  _In case they are watching._

“... Sorry, but I doubt I have anything to offer that may be of use in your magical realms,” Dullahan said, an eyebrow raising. He would fold his arms, but not when he was trying to avoid falling over. As if catching wind of his distress, Aht fetched a chair, all the while glaring at Eruca, seemingly challenging her to deny him of his right to rest.

“Oh, but you do,” the Queen said, sounding hopeful as her prisoner-and-guest took a seat. She smiled slightly at Aht’s antics. “If you can help recreate the phenomenon in Vainqueur, we can shed our reliance of Mana-- and the continent’s reliance on balanced Mana.”

Dullahan caught Elm and Aht’s grimaces from that statement. It was obvious that the Satyros did not fully agree with the Queen’s proposal. Regardless, he was beginning to see where the Queen was coming from. “... Sorry, unfortunately I am not religious,” Dullahan commented. “Magic as a concept is generally dismissed by my community. The only…  _magics_  people believe in are those purportedly being performed by the major religions.

“I have no clue as to how to begin to aid you. I apologise in advance.”

Eruca’s features darkened as she attempted to take in his reply, and for a moment, Dullahan felt concerned that she might lose her temper. Thankfully, she did not. “... Alright. Then, perhaps you can help provide your perspective to my little project,” she said.

“A project..?” There was part curiosity and part dread in Dullahan’s response, but he braced for the Queen’s answer regardless.

“Yes... I’m researching for a way to end desertification.” The twins were right. Again. They’re trying very hard to align his interests with the Queen’s, weren’t they? Dullahan thought bemusedly. Eruca continued. “However, I have many roadblocks ahead of me.”

“Is one of these ‘roadblocks’ political, by any chance?”

Marie dropped her quill at that exact moment, pausing her notetaking briefly. “... You can tell from your brief stay in Granorg?” the monarch inquired.

Dullahan scratched his head. “Yeah... Your men were proudly emblazoning their political affiliations on their uniforms on the streets. I’m assuming you’re at odds with a council, or your court.” Dullahan mentally cursed himself for not retrospectively digging in further at the royal libraries on this topic when he had the chance. “Not that it is within my purview to say so, but I believe you should get that sorted, first and foremost.”

“Good! I look forward to your feedback, then,” Eruca said, clapping her hands together as if the negotiations had already concluded. Dullahan groaned inwardly. Politics  _again?_  Really?

“I hadn’t agreed to it yet, Your Majesty.”

“I’m sure you will. Unless you prefer to spend the rest of your days in the dungeons?”

“... I will demand reimbursement,” the blond replied weakly.  _Might as well make the most out of this._

“Certainly. Name your price, and I will have a contract prepared,” Eruca said, her diplomatic grin carrying the weight of her earlier threat.

As the moments passed, it became apparent to Dullahan that he could meet the bargain offered by both the twins and the Queen to his benefit. “... You shall consult the Black Chronicle and find me a path back home.”  _Best if I can stop relying on the twins fully for that._

\----------

The contract was drafted out in a matter of days. They regathered, again in the study, to review, agree, and lay their seals onto the long parchment.

The two Celestians, being witnesses to the agreement, dipped their thumbs in ink, tracing their respective signatures onto the contract.

The Granorgite Monarch drew a magic circle across the parchment, streaks of dark purple lightning crackling and fizzling in the minute details of the Granorg royal heraldry, before cooling off to a unique, teal-colored inscription.

Dullahan withdrew two items: a candle, and a pincer-shaped object. He solemnly lighted the candle before the other parties, letting the candle melt and drop onto the parchment. He could, from the corner of his eyes, observe the mix of awe and curiosity plastered all across their features-- much like what he did when they laid down their signatures.

The wax ready, Dullahan clamped the pincer plate across it, applying pressure onto the grip before releasing it, showing reversed imprints from his own seal.

The entire process was repeated on the other side of the parchment, before an intentional tear was done down the middle, in zig-zagged, irregular lines, to lower the risks of forgery. One copy for the monarchy; and one other for the nobody.

Dullahan visibly winced at the fact that he had to use his own, private seal, which bore his name, his title, and his current liege, to bind himself to a new liege; even if it was in a different world. The thought was ironic and painful: especially to Lord Maxwell, First Baron of Alanborough himself.


	17. Chapter 17

His two months were well spent in Granorg’s libraries, both public and private, looking into matters related to Mana (and unsurprisingly, the political landscape of Vainqueur). The Queen afforded him with surprisingly more freedom than he had expected, allowing him free access around castle grounds-- also the choice of one armament for self-defense. If this had been three years back, he would have, with no hesitation, opted for a long blade; but now, he preferred a short dagger.

Dullahan had little luck on any further written information about the Ritual; the monarch’s personal accounts were more informative than the manuscripts kept at her libraries. He mulled this over a mug of ale in the city’s tavern in the western district, as he usually did after a long day staring at books. The tavern was a run-down building, made all the more charming by the gratuitous smell of sewerage wafting in from nearby.

Next to the fireplace, a small crowd of children gathered around a pair of Satyros-- one played an idle tune on his flute, the other reciting stories, fables and old legends. The children, unaware of any political undertones that the Beastkind brought to her stories, zoned in intently on the story of an ancient clash between supernatural beings, which involved fire, destruction, darkness, and hope.

Letting his attention wander slightly, Dullahan managed to catch the trail of an ongoing conversation.

“ _That_  rumour again? I know we always say Protea was bad and all, but Queen Eruca needs to buck up,” a man spat in harsh whispers to his mate at Dullahan’s adjacent table. “I heard we have this super useful weapon that can stop the desertification once and for all, but the Queen is  _not taking any action_ _at all_. It’s been  _three years_ , for God’s sake.”

The other man nodded defeatedly, as if they were already sick and tired about the subject. “I think we might be offending our neighbours if this continues... It’s already hurting our relations with Alistel.”

“You know, I’ve been wondering... We  _say_  we have this super useful weapon, but... I feel like we should know what it’s all about...”

“... Actually, now that you mention it...”

Chatter from a different table caught Dullahan’s attention.

“... It’s going to be soon the other nations will start pointing fingers at us. Then war will break out over arable land all over again.”

“Rumours say the continent won’t last another twenty years, too...”

“For real?”

“Yeah. I heard Abyssia Forest’s losing land as we speak.”

“Just why isn’t the Queen doing anything about this mess?” the man almost shouted. The other patrons shot him a look, but otherwise, they let the man’s comment pass.

“... Well, there’s the Parliament in her way...”

Dullahan sighed audibly, burying his face into his mug. He hadn’t expected the need to look into the Parliament further, but if they were one of the major hindrances to the anti-desertification effort, Dullahan might need to find a way to deal with them.

The storytelling over, the children gushed their way out of the tavern into the afternoon sun. Dullahan spotted a man trailing them, the end of the man’s green chaperon flailing slightly from his owner trying to shake off a naughty child grabbing at his arms. “Oh, stop it, Claire!” Dullahan heard the man say, followed with a hearty laughter.

Dullahan took his leave soon after.

\------

Much to Dullahan’s surprise, he met the same man in the Queen’s halls upon his return to the castle. The man’s eyes widened upon his entry into the throne room, looking awkwardly back at the monarch, as if to demand an explanation. The blond raised an eyebrow.

“Perfect timing,” Eruca motioned for him to come closer. “Allow me to introduce you to Dullahan, Pierre. On paper, he’s a scholar from Cygnus; otherwise, he is our latest partner in our little project.”

“Your Majesty, he--”

“-- is  _not_  him,” the Queen cut Pierre off.

Pierre’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and understandably so. Dullahan ignored their idle chatter. “Who is this?”

“Right. I’m Pierre, I’m sort of an intelligence officer,” Pierre tipped his hat. “I saw you at the tavern earlier.”

“So did I.”

“I know; that’s why I’m here.”

Dullahan frowned, unamused. Another tricky character to deal with. Why would the Queen keep what seemed to be a mercenary as an intelligence officer? That was entirely counter-intuitive. “We need to talk,” Dullahan said to the monarch, eyeing Pierre’s response.

The other man didn’t budge one bit.

“He’s fine to stay,” Eruca reassured him. “He’s one of the reasons why I am on the throne right now. I owe a lot to him.”

Dullahan shook his head. This would have never gone down well in Alanborough. He did recall reading that the Queen-- as gullible her looks may be-- had usurped the throne from the previous monarch, Protea. For the people or not, it was entirely against due process back in his homeland.  _... Not saying that Granorg is to follow the same rules as Alanborough does._  “Fine.” He folded his arms. “It’s about your... popularity with the Parliament.”

Pierre turned skeptical almost immediately. “I understand your concern if you’ve been eavesdropping conversations at the tavern, but there’s nothing new that the Queen doesn’t know about.” The mercenary pointed a finger at himself. “I’ve been keeping her up to date.”

Dullahan noticed how Pierre had dropped his salutations to the Queen entirely, but said nothing about it. “... So what are the Parliament’s demands?”

“Something about equal rights to the citizens.” Eruca sighed. In the past two months, Dullahan managed to squeeze a certain degree of trust from her, though it was not an impressive amount. After all, he hadn’t been causing any trouble since he had been shot. “They intend to establish a lower house, with representatives from the citizens rather than just lords.”

Dullahan tapped a finger on his other folded arm. Granorg’s Parliament comprised of a small membership of about twenty lords and ladies, helmed by a man called Marcus-- the nation’s second most powerful individual in terms of peerage, granted to him by his title of Lord Speaker and his dukeship. Presumably, his role was meant to be an objective one, to facilitate the proceedings of Parliament-- but Lord Marcus managed to turn it into a rallying point to unite feuding nobles.

Their main objective, of course, was to pull down the absolute power the Granorg royals held-- which was undoubtedly pissing them off, for sure. Possibly for chivalric reasons, however, the Parliament had not been pulling any dirty tricks, and were following due process by the book. The Parliament probably knew the nation was watching their every action.

“That’s a fair enough request,” Dullahan stated, much to Pierre’s mirth-- as if the latter was doubting Dullahan’s ability to comprehend the full depth of Granorg’s politics. He was right; Dullahan didn’t. “Why would you refute their offer?”

“Because they are proposing the new house as a replacement to the monarchy,” Marie said, emerging from an inner chamber next to the hall. “They are planning to oust the Queen and all of her rights.”

“Worse still, normal folks seem to be alright with it,” Pierre added.

“... But without the privileges granted to me as a member of the royal family, I will not be able to continue with my efforts to prevent desertification,” Eruca finished for them. “I need resources to work. I’m... nothing without them.”

Then there was that pained look on Eruca’s face that caught Dullahan off-guard; was it because it was no longer possible for her to perform the Ritual to stop it, now that she was the only one left?

There was also the burning question of the Queen’s missing relative and the White Chronicle, but Dullahan refrained from asking it outright; he didn’t want the Queen to know about his other agreement with the ethereal twins. He’ll have to find a more natural opportunity to ask her about it later.

“However...” Eruca said, and everyone turned their attention to her once more. “... I do not want to disappoint my people. They placed faith in me when I ascended to this throne; I must still serve them.”

Dullahan resisted his urge to spit, upon realising exactly what dilemma the Queen had in mind. She was torn between her duty to the continent and her duty to Granorg’s people; and the paths were not crossing at this juncture. No matter what Dullahan might suggest, it was going to be a disgusting path to walk.

... He’d have to think about this one carefully...


	18. Chapter 18

Dullahan left the throne room at the earliest convenience, his deed done. It was none of his business whether the Queen took his advice or not, nor did he ultimately care. He owed no direct duty to Granorg.

Unfortunately, Pierre seemed to think otherwise, even as the intelligence officer barged out of the room after him. “Hold your horses,  _man,_ ” he said through clenched teeth, prompting Dullahan to pause his steps to address him.

“I’ve said my fill. What more do you want?”

Pierre merely glared in response. Seeing no words coming out of his mouth, Dullahan shrugged, turning to leave.

“Why have you taken on  _another_  name?”

Dullahan stopped again. “... What?”

“You can fool your sister, but you can’t fool  _me!_ _”_  Pierre closed the distance between them. “What’s your deal  _this_  time? Where the  _hell_  have you been?!”

_Wait, sister?_  “You might’ve mistaken me for someone else, Pierre. I don’t know yo-”

“This is the  _second_  time I’ve heard you use that excuse!” the man’s heated voice echoed down the corridors. “What you told Eruca just now was  _not_  something a mere scholar was capable of!” Pierre spat. “You had education in politics, didn’t you? Because you’re the bloody  _prince!_ _”_  

\--------

_“You want me to_  what _?”_ _Eruca demanded, looking absolutely outraged._

_“Step down from the throne,” Dullahan said nonchalantly, shrugging._

_“Absolutely not! I will not abandon my people!” The rest of the room was similarly flabbergasted and looked ready to draw blood. Dullahan’s ground, however, stood firm._

_“It would seem you’re trying to do too many things at once, is all,” Dullahan pointed out. “It’s simple: you merely have to make the decision to let go one of your ambitions.” He raised a finger. “Granorgnites’ immediate welfare.” A second finger. “Vainqueur.”_

_“They no longer overlap, Your Majesty. And if what you said is true, I would believe that  pursuing a way to save Vainqueur takes a higher priority.”_

_Marie stepped forward. “Then we’ll be left with absolutely no resources to pursue such measures.  It’s a dead end regardless. Would you mind giving more constructive opinions after you have thought through the consequences?”_

_“Then you draft a charter,” Dullahan said, ignoring Marie’s dripping sarcasm._

_“We what?” Pierre echoed Eruca’s statement._

_“A charter to release the absolute power of the monarchy. Put in your ‘resources’ as stipends to the royal family.” Dullahan paused slightly before making his final proposal._

_“And finally, declassify your private manuscripts, and let the Ritual be known to the masses.”_

\--------

Dullahan watched as Pierre stood immediately in front of him. “I’m not going to repeat myself again: I. Do not. Know you. Nor the Queen prior to this mess.” It had not occurred to him that his generic looks could stir up this much trouble. “I also did not know that the Queen had a brother.”  _The prince, missing, though? Would he be the one that the twins were talking about? ... Ugh. More mysteries still._

“You’re a hilarious jester,  _Dullahan,_ _”_  Pierre hissed, sarcasm bleeding from his utterance of the pseudonym. “You  _don’t_  know, or do you  _pretend_  to not know?” Pierre shook his head incredulously. “You would have  _at leas_ t heard of Prince Ernst. Or have you never wondered why everyone give you odd looks? Or how often you heard his name being uttered in idle chatter?”

“You mean the  _late_  Prince Ernst,” Dullahan provided ever-so-helpfully. Pierre grabbed him by the collar of his cloak, dragging Dullahan’s weight to crash against the nearest wall-- not something many could do with his size. Pierre’s own height and experience in combat made it possible.

Pierre’s rage made his next move all too predictable-- and Dullahan caught his wrist just before the other’s backhand could connect with his own face. Pierre’s eyes widened in surprise; a waft of something airy barely escaped Dullahan’s nostrils as everything settled. “You know what’s going to come next,” Dullahan warned, his fingers making marks into Pierre’s leather armguards. “Be reasonable.”

_“Tch!”_  Pierre pulled back his hand, and Dullahan released his grip; only to find the hand swinging its way towards him again. The foreigner grabbed the vagrant fist by the wrist once more, his other hand putting a firm grip onto the mercenary’s shoulders.

As soon as he made sure Pierre felt pain from his twisted arm, Dullahan let go of him and disappeared into the shadows. The last echoes from Pierre rang in his ears.

“You  _sack of shit..._!”

\--------

“Ah!” a high-pitched voice exclaimed, followed by the sound of two pairs of hooved feet, greeted Dullahan in his assigned quarters. It was barely an hour after his encounter with Pierre; judging from Elm’s expression, he figured that they had already heard of the scuffle. The younger Satyros put her hands on her hips. “Dullahan! What did I tell you? No violence!”

Dullahan shrugged in his chair, not bothering to respond with a defense. He was very sure that they were fed a different story by Pierre. Elm’s comments confirmed his suspicions. “So, hiding something by dislocating someone’s shoulder, eh? I see now how low you can get,” the redhead said.

Dullahan returned her stare in kind. “If I truly needed to silent him, I would dislocate his neck, not his shoulder.”

Aht’s cheeks puffed rounder.

“But is it true?” Elm demanded.

“True what?” Dullahan raised an eyebrow.

“That.. You’re... You know...”

“He’s not,” Aht concluded harshly, stamping a foot.

“... Aht is right.”  _Why the aggression, child?_  “As you can probably tell by now, I’m not. Even  _without_  my confirmation, I’m sure you can tell that I do not dress befitting of a prince.”  _I’m not the irresponsible prince who sought death before his prime. What good would that achieve?_ Dullahan mused. “My looks are but an unfortunate coincidence.”

Elm frowned. There was brief silence before Elm nudged Aht by her shoulder. “Lady Aht, I would like to speak to him in private.” Aht hesitated slightly, looking at her guardian briefly, as if exchanging hidden messages with the older Satyros. Dullahan assumed one of the messages was something along the lines of “no violence”.

Dullahan folded his arms as Aht reluctantly left. Elm usually approached him together with her lady, so it was rare enough of an opportunity for them to interact directly as individuals. Knowing the Beastkind, it was hard to tell their age purely from their appearances, as most seemed to stop aging to the human eye as soon as they hit adulthood. If at all, Dullahan was glad that purebred Satyros  _at least_ resembled humans, unlike other Beastkinds in Terrano. “Can I... help you?”

“I’m going to tell you some very important things, on the assumption that you are not  _him_ _,”_  Elm started, raising a thumb to bite at the nail. Dullahan’s curiosity perked. “Firstly. Now you know why the Queen allows you more conveniences than you would expect.” The blond nodded; the loss of her brother was probably still fresh in her mind. After all, he  _himself_  couldn’t get past the fact he lost Campbell... yet. Damn. Had it really been years? How many years again?

_Do the numbers matter?_  his mind cooed absently.  _You still killed him._

Dullahan let out an audible  _tch,_  much to Elm’s annoyance.

“Did you hear what I said?” She clicked her tongue. “I said you should afford more tact when dealing with the Queen and Lady Aht in the future. They were close friends with the late prince.”

“Aht?” Dullahan paused. “Did you know Prince Ernst as well, Elm?”

There as a long silence as Elm visibly struggled to phrase her answer. “... B-briefly, when he visited Celestia,” she said vaguely.

Dullahan’s suspicions grew, but he didn’t let that show. “I see...” Whichever it was, a dead man could not be holding the White Chronicle and be on the run; so it was none of his business. But from Pierre’s argument... What if he was just pretending to be dead? “... By the way, Elm, do you happen to know of any other members of the Granorg royal family?”

Elm shook her head. “No. Those that I know of are now dead. The Queen is also rather tight-lipped about the subject.”

Dullahan sighed.

Elm continued. “Anyway... Just keep in mind what I just said. I can’t bear to see the both of them suffer further from your ignorance.” The Satyros watched as Dullahan shrugged in silent agreement. “And another thing.

“I’d appreciate it if you could... distance yourself from my lady.”

Dullahan was about to open his mouth to demand an explanation, but it was at that  _exact_  moment he knew what was happening.

They were both growing attached to one another.

“... I understand,” Dullahan replied weakly, breaking eye contact with Elm. “... Do you have anything else to say?”

“I do not. Good day, Dullahan,” Elm said respectfully, having expected an argument from him but had none. As soon as the Satyros closed the door behind her, Dullahan took a swig out of a mug next to him, slamming the mug onto the table.

His knuckles whitened under his shaking death-grip on the mug.


	19. Chapter 19

Dullahan was genuinely surprised by the number of people representing the Parliament. A mere fifteen! He had not realised there were so few people he would have to deal with.

It was a blessing to him, if anything.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to the 460th session of the Granorg Parliament,” a lone, aged man intoned from the front of the hall, his eyes fixated on a manuscript before him. “This marks our third meeting in this fiscal year. ... I am obliged to inform the members of Parliament,” the man’s gaze rose, catching Dullahan’s in return before continuing, “that we have today invitees from Her Majesty’s Privy Council.”

Dullahan could barely pace his breathing. It had been three years since he last sat in a proper proceeding of any type; ghastly memories of his own sessions in King Edmund’s Parliament-- aided by the smell of teakwood, smoking pipes, and the stench of ink on parchment-- threatened to resurface. Nevertheless, he could feel the eyes of almost everyone within the small room on him. The foreigner stood briefly and bowed before taking a seat once more, next to Marie at the left corner to the back of the room.

The Granorg Parliamentary was housed in a tiny building in an adjacent estate to the castle, the size looking more appropriate for a private manor than anything else. Despite his numerous visits here, it was Dullahan’s first time within these closed chambers, being deemed the most sacred grounds for only the most prestigious of nobles-- those who were members of the highest class in Granorgnite society. Despite all its glory as the proud empire superpower of the continent, the room was barely furnished beyond the bare necessities, ravishing in simplicity and lack of ornamentation.

A huge difference from King Edmund’s architectural tastes, to be sure.

The foreigner eyed the other fourteen members, genuinely left speechless by the balanced composition. He heard rumours that the dwindling Mana reserves was affecting the population of the continent; was that why there were almost equal numbers of men and women in seats of power? _They do have a Queen, after all._ Dullahan frowned.

The man spoke once more. “I am Marcus. Lord Speaker.” It was merely a formality. _One dictated by their procedures, no doubt,_ Dullahan mused.

Dullahan merely gave periodic nods to the rules of the session as described by Marcus, his mind slightly adrift. _I’m... not exactly sure why I asked for an opportunity sit-in with the Parliament._ He sighed inwardly. He supposed that he merely needed confirmation that their political system was not that varied from his homeland’s.

Dullahan was caught _entirely_ off-guard by what happened next.

“By the request of our monarch, we have extended our invitation to you, Lord... Dullahan, as representative of the Privy Council, to spectate in our proceedings,” Marcus said, his greying hair betraying his otherwise youthful looks. “... However, it is also our duty to determine all who sit within these walls to be... qualified.”

Dullahan saw Marie freeze next to him, alarmed. “Of all the timing to invoke their rights...!” Marie hissed in a low tone. _A qualifier,_ Dullahan couldn’t help but wonder, not seeing the immediate implications at hand; but it wasn’t looking too bright, judging from Marie’s expression. _It’s true that there’s no such requirement for invitees back in King Edmund’s courts, but…_

“I see that you are understandably confused. Allow me to explain,” Marcus rose from his wooden panel, raising the manuscript before him. “As you may... or may not know, the Parliament is comprised of only nobles--direct descendants of the Empire, as with those in session with us today.” He indicated to Marie. “Lady Marie is no exception.”

Dullahan shot a glance at Marie. _You? Nobility?_ She returned his glance with a smug look, but the charade was dropped almost immediately.

To the right side of the room, nearest to Lord Speaker, a woman rose to her feet, even as Marcus continued. “What it means simply is this: We must ascertain that you are no mere commoner. Granted, if you are a member of the Privy Council, this should pose as no problem to you.”

Dullahan slowly, but surely, began to realise the direction the exchange was taking. Resisting the urge of submitting to anxiety was proving to be rather difficult. “... Pray tell, what is this ‘qualifier’ you use to assess whether a man is of blue blood?” he managed to ask.

The woman next to Marcus finally spoke, the staff resting next to her raised-- the darkened wood reflecting its owner’s complexion. “Flux runs in the blood of all direct descendants of the Empire.” She paused briefly, as if ascertaining Dullahan’s reaction before continuing. Dullahan willed himself to show none of it. The lady frowned. “It is but a simple assessment with Mana,” she said.

Marie abruptly stood. “Lady Asha, please wait,” she pleaded, then turned her attention to Marcus, her displeasure showing. “Lord Speaker, is this entirely necessary?”

Dullahan saw that the Lord Speaker could not resist a smile. “Why, yes, of course,” Marcus responded, with much satisfaction. “... Or do you have any objections to the arrangement?”

It was clear then that the Parliament did not favor Dullahan’s sudden appearance in Granorg and its politics, much less in a private session of national governance. Most of the nobles looked to be dying to identify the foreigner.

“For all that is good and noble, Lady Marie, let us prove that we can be at ease with this... man, lest he be a spy!” a man in his late thirties hollered across the room, impatient and annoyed by Marie’s interruption; his gloved fingers rapping on the teakwood table. “It won’t be the first time that someone sent a rat or two to fiddle with our Parliament, now, would it?” he said pointedly. Judging from his dressing, Dullahan quickly wrote him off as the military man, and paid no further attention to him.

His head, however, continued turning. _I’m very sure I do not have any of these Mana-related traits... I will definitely be kicked out._ Dullahan bit his lip. However, showing too much of a reaction in Parliament would increase suspicions on his character. _I’ll have no choice but to ride this out in a civil manner..._

_... Judging from their behaviour, this little incident will no doubt make it harder for me to influence the Parliament to support for the Queen’s proposals…_

_Tch._ It was much earlier than expected, but Dullahan did not see any other alternative other than to speak his mind.

“I do have objections, Your Lordship,” Dullahan started, making gradual eye contact with every member of the Parliament present. His hands laid on the stack of parchment he brought in with Marie into the room. “Does this request come from all of Parliament?” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Marie eyeing him suspiciously, as if wordlessly telling him not to get her into trouble. Dullahan didn’t intend to.

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “Unanimously, yes.”

“Oh?” Dullahan let out a light scoff, patting one of the scrolls before him. “I do not see that being reflected in this document, however,” he said with a smile. A very sly smile.

Next to Marcus, Dullahan could see the parliamentary scribe panicking. With no means of a full re-enactment of any physical meeting, scribes could only rely on their working notes and the power of their own memory in drafting the proceedings into legal record.

Minutes of meetings.

“And what do you think you’re doing, viewing such a restricted document with no prior authorisation?” a member challenged, her generous size creaking the wooden desk before her as she leaned forward, one hand cupping at her anxious face. The tag read something along the lines of finance, which would explain her anxiety for being lacking in ensuring proper audit trails.

 _That’s an easy one._ “Amongst the rights of the Privy Council is the right to view Parliamentary records,” Dullahan replied, shrugging.

“And much akin to that being the rights of the Privy Council, it is the rights of the Parliament to require a qualifying Mana assessment,” Marcus countered.

“Only if it was duly resolved and minuted, yes,” Dullahan said, saluting the scribe, who visibly flinched. He hadn’t planned to put the poor scribe on the spot like that-- after all, he hated it when it happened to himself-- but it was the fastest solution Dullahan could immediately think of.

It was a lie, of course-- three months ago, the Parliament would not have even known of his existence. Dullahan was still mucking about, nameless, in Alistel. It was not possible for them to have resolved in the previous meeting to appoint one of their own as an Accessor for a person they yet to know of.

However, judging from the looks of disappointment from some of the members, it was clear that their decision was unanimous, if not recorded. Was an invitee being a noble or not that important? _What’s going on?_

”It matters _not_!” the noble immediately next to Dullahan roared, his fist connecting with the table. The ragged man’s behaviour was unbecoming of one placed in charge of Granorg’s judiciary. Dullahan knew him well, from his review of the records. The rather obnoxious Devil’s advocate of the Granorg Parliament: a Marquis by the name of Gent.

Lord Gent’s eyes flickered as he continued, its erratic movements betraying his anxiety and rage. “The Parliament resolves _now_ for the convening of the proposed assessment. With a _waiver of due notice_.”

The Parliament exploded into voices of agreement.

“Scribe!” Marcus called, and the poor lad seemed to be flustered even further. “Make sure you remember to record such an _important_ resolution,” the Lord Speaker hissed. The scribe gulped, and proceeded to write into his journal frantically.

Meanwhile, it took a while for Dullahan, in addition to sitting back down, to realise that he had been almost immediately outwitted out of the attendees’ sheer desperation on identifying him. _Why? What drives them?_

The memory of his earlier scuffle with Pierre jogged at the back of his mind.

_“Because you’re the bloody prince!”_

“Oh. I see,” Dullahan murmured, crossing his arms. _They want to know whether Prince Ernst has risen from the grave to steal their amassed power._

Marie once again attempted to stop the woman with the staff from proceeding. “Lady Asha, I wish for you to reconsider,” Marie said firmly, but her respect for the woman was undiminished. “Bear in mind that if you proceed, you shall open a door that you may never close.”

Asha returned her gaze. “Are those words from Eruca?”

Marie nodded, much to Dullahan’s surprise. _So the Queen knew._

The entire room fell into an eerie silence as Asha spoke, her unseen authority pressing into every man and woman present in the room-- with the exception of the foreigner.

The lady raised her staff before her, her face thoughtful. It was a while before she spoke again. “Her Majesty’s intentions are noted,” she began, her brown eyes resting on Dullahan’s azure ones. “However, the Parliament has spoken.

“The assessment shall continue.”

Dullahan’s grip on his folded arms tightened.

 

\----------

 

Surprisingly, the assessment was not carried out in the chambers itself, but in a room adjacent. Marie trailed behind Dullahan and Asha, and closed the door behind them. The chambers was dark; but from what Dullahan could remember, there was nothing more in this room other than banquet tools and furnishings for catering.

“I would have expected this to be carried out in front of the other members of Parliament,” Dullahan said, his brows furrowed. It was almost impossible to read the other woman, and the blond did not like the status quo one bit.

“Bearing in mind that I am only offering this alternative in observance to the Queen’s warnings,” Asha replied smoothly, waving her staff-- and lighting all the candles in the chamber before continuing, “so that I can be prepared for any... untoward incidents.”

“And you are saying that the Parliament would believe you if you said that you have done the assessment, even if you will not?” Dullahan offered, testing the limits of the enigma’s authority. It was a gamble that he had to risk; he would have to win this woman’s favour. Somehow.

The lady merely stifled a laugh. “I have never once entertained that possibility.” She shifted her gaze towards the wall. “... Though I may have forgotten to mention that this room is observable from their chambers,” Asha admitted, “but it is soundproof.”

Both Dullahan and Marie blinked. Before both could inquire, Asha managed to cut off their questions. “We shall begin,” the woman said with finality, tapping Dullahan’s head with the head of her staff.

Marie took a few quick steps away from Dullahan. The man himself stood fast, not knowing what to expect from the simple gesture-- but it soon became apparent.

The room shone once in eerie green emanating from Asha’s staff, enveloping only the caster and the recipient. Almost as soon as it emerged, it went away; airy blasts phasing through the walls, seeking escape from the caster. Dullahan quickly checked himself for additional fangs or horns. No, nothing yet.

When he locked gazes with Asha, however, the spellcaster’s stare sent chills down his spine.

 

\--------

 

“I confirm the presence of Flux,” Asha’s words echoed in the silent chambers of Parliament, the woman herself unfazed by the incessant chatter rising soon after.

Dullahan could not take his eyes off of her for even a second, his shock indescribable. _Is she for real?_

Beside him, Marie, too, was silent-- and her expression betraying her inner conflict.

“Lady Asha, surely you could divulge more than-” Lord Gent began, but was silenced by the _thunk_ of a staff against the marble flooring.

“Ours rights is pertaining to the confirmation of the presence of Flux in an attendee, and nothing more,” Asha interjected, her eyes level with the member of Parliament. “Such are the powers granted to Parliament and myself.” Almost immediately, suspicious glances turned at Dullahan’s way, wondering what sorcery the foreigner had pulled to confuse the Parliamentary Seer.

Dullahan himself would also love to have the answers.


	20. Chapter 20

The rest of the Parliament proceedings trailed off to an awkward ending, with all members eyeing Dullahan with hatred until the end of the meeting.

But the foreigner had other, more pressing concerns.

It didn’t take much of an effort to find himself-- and Marie-- alone with the seer. In the quiet chambers on a separate floor away from the buzz of annoyed politicians, Asha regarded them knowingly-- her faint half-smile never once leaving her cheeks.

Dullahan was about to close the distance between them, but Marie quickly pulled at his court-worthy cloak, immediately halting his advance. “Don’t even think about it,” Marie warned, her brows furrowing as she assumed the worst-case scenario out of the foreigner.

Not wanting to argue, Dullahan shrugged, and stayed put.

“It never ceases to amuse me to look upon Eruca’s choice of allies,” Asha quipped, folding a leg even as she rested her staff next to her seat. “Some things seems to never change.”

Marie was taken aback, but said nothing in rebuttal. “... I’m going to need context,” Dullahan said simply, clicking his tongue in disgust.

“And I, you,” the seer regarded Dullahan with curiosity, a hand reaching absently to play with her hair. “Who are you?”

Dullahan let out an audible _tch_ to Asha’s ability to divert his questions with her own. For all her mystical look, she was still a politician, after all. Asha’s half-smile only widened at Dullahan’s annoyance.

“He came from a land beyond the continent; a foreigner, if you will,” Marie spoke, her tone relatively soft for once. “A land which he claims to possess no traces of Mana.” Marie gave a cold glare at Dullahan before she continued. “... But it would seem that he is lying.”

_Results of the Flux assessment,_ Dullahan recalled bitterly.

“About that,” Asha pointed at Dullahan, “I never once claimed that he was a direct descendant of the Empire. Quite the contrary, really.”

Marie paused, and Dullahan’s anticipation for an explanation was silently deafening.

“You lied?” Dullahan stated bluntly, knowing that Marie would never summon the courage to ask an apparently respected member of the Parliament. After all, he was the ignorant foreigner, right? Might as well do everyone a bloody favour.

Asha huffed, bemused. “Not quite. Even if it is not similar to those within the descendants of the Empire, the presence of Flux is undeniable.” She leaned back in her cushioned chair, putting her two hands together. “Where did you obtain that, I wonder?”

Dullahan shrugged, but was contemplating on the possibilities, folding his arms as he did. W _as it because of the Black Chronicle?_ His train of thought stopped then. _Was this also something the Queen knew?_

_Both this woman and the Queen are withholding information from me... I do not like this one bit._

“But there you go, you have your answer,” Asha announced, her suppressed glee looking eager to rear its head. “You’re now obliged to tell me _why_ you are interested in our Parliament, dear foreigner.” The seer tilted her head, but Dullahan could not shake the impression of her actions being more menacing than they were.

“The Queen would like to propose a solution to the Parliament from its current deadlock,” Marie said, presenting the seer with a stack of draft documents. The foreigner jumped, and reached a hand to try and shut Marie’s mouth-- but he was too late. _You hare-brain,_ Dullahan cursed the Queen inwardly, _what good will you do to alert the Parliament this early? To give them more time to take apart your efforts?_ Our _efforts?_

As Asha curiously thumbed through the document, Dullahan forcibly dragged Marie out of the politician’s earshot. “This is the first time I’ve heard of this,” Dullahan hissed. “It’s not ready. You and that _fool_ of a monarch are going to ruin the entire plan.”

Marie scowled. “ _You_ have no idea what you’re dealing with here. If you want to garner the Parliament’s support, you need to convince Lady Asha over there--” Marie gestured sarcastically at the lady’s direction-- “and get _her_ to convince the others to follow.”

Dullahan kept quiet then, and pulled the door to the chambers wide open. Marie looked on, slightly confused.

“Go away,” Dullahan said.

Marie’s disapproving glare turned towards Asha, looking hopeful that the woman will raise an objection. Asha merely shrugged. “It is fine, Marie. Leave us be.”

\---------

When they were left alone, their gazes never left each other.

The woman, had, however, threw a tiny ball of flame into the fireplace, warming the room slightly. He was dealing with people that _flung balls of fire at will_. Dullahan felt like he could explode at the revelation at any moment.

There was only silence greeting them as the exchange continued. _... She wants me to speak first. Vixen,_ Dullahan mentally spat, his frown deepening. “Explain yourself,” Dullahan declared simply.

“What about?”

“This... _Flux_. You said I have it.”

“That I did.” Asha absently combed at her hair again, looking slightly unamused by the repetition.

Dullahan clicked his tongue. “Where do you think I got it?”

“That is something only _you_ can answer.”

The foreigner’s fists clenched underneath his cloak. Must to his chagrin, Asha’s amusement seemed to have reached new heights. Her teeth was now visible.

“Relax, foreigner,” Asha said, folding her legs-- the stack of parchment had somehow found its way to the side table when Dullahan failed to pay attention. “I, too, am curious.” Her eyes flickered to the fireplace briefly. “Have you been in contact with any strange old books lately?”

Dullahan defiantly folded his arms. “What would it mean if I did?” _So Asha knows about the Chronicles._

“It means that your source of Flux stems from one of them,” Asha’s smile dropped. “Meddling with royal heirlooms are punishable by death.”

Dullahan kept silent; Asha, detecting no rebuttal, continued.

“... But Eruca didn’t.” The politician was counting something off her fingers, as if debunking the possibilities one by one. “Not a thief. Let’s see...” Asha snapped her gaze back to Dullahan once more. “... I had my suspicions, as did the rest of the Parliament. But you are also not Ernst, or any other derivation of him, Flux-wise.”

Dullahan huffed; his guess wasn’t off the mark. _Wait a minute. Derivation?_

“Your face, however...” Asha trailed off, perplexed. “This _cannot_ be a coincidence...”

“That’s enough,” Dullahan cut her off, his patience growing thin. “I’m not here to entertain you,” he scoffed. “Simply put, I do not belong here. Satiating your curiosity does not fall under my ever-growing list of ‘things I have to care about’.”

“Oh, I see, you are _the_ one causing a ruckus a while back,” Asha said, clapping her hands, paying his outburst no heed. “The rumoured _monster_ from the castle infirmary.”

Dullahan winced. _Totally unnecessary thing to be reminded of._ “Sorry to disappoint you, but I grow no fangs nor claws to entertain you.”

“A monster nonetheless,” Asha’s smile returned. “A beast unaffected by Mana.” She tapped a finger on her chin. “I see... That’s what Marie and Eruca meant. You are an abomination from beyond Vainqueur.”

Dullahan easily shrugged off the names--they were hardly the worst things he had been called. “And so I am,” he sighed. “Congratulations, you found my secret.” His raised his hands in surrender. “Are you saying that I’m being _influenced_ by some ancient spellbook?”

“... You would believe me if you have seen the Chronicles at work first-hand, child,” Asha said as she rose to her feet. “Not a thief, not the late Prince...” she trailed off, eyeing the stack of papers next to her. “That would make _this_ your idea, wouldn’t it?” Asha’s gaze turned back to the foreigner’s once more. “To what end?”

_Good, she’s returned to grounds where I can finally find footing._ Pulling back his urge to slap her, Dullahan took one step backwards for good measure. “Your nation’s a mess. I’m merely proposing a solution,” he said, rummaging a hand through his hair. Almost as an afterthought, he pulled down the damn hat he had on.

Asha gave a knowing smile. “In all honesty, I am surprised that Eruca went along with this, knowing the potential ramifications,” she said. “I can see why she and Marie decided to inform me of this beforehand, but...”

Dullahan’s eye twitched. _What’s wrong with it, aside from all the pros for the Parliament and all the cons stacked against the Queen?_

Asha sighed, as if reading his annoyance. “You know nothing, do you?”

“Enlighten me, would you?” Dullahan said, kneeling in front of the fireplace, looking for a spit.

There was none. He unceremoniously used a firelog as one, instead.

“Tell me, are you aware of the alliance between Granorg with the other nations in Vainqueur?”

“How is this relevant to our conversation?” Dullahan didn’t bother to turn around and address her.

“... You claim that you have engaged in politics, but your inexperience is showing,” he heard Asha say. “Policies of this scale cannot be rushed.”

Dullahan froze.

_Whatever consequences it might have on Granorg, I don’t give a fowl’s arse!_ Dullahan wanted to say to Asha’s face, but he restrained himself in the nick of time. _How much time have I wasted here? For how long more do I have to stay in this God-forsaken madhouse?_ The poor firelog became victim to his anger through crushing grip, instead. “Actually, the faster it can be approved and implemented, the better,” he managed to say through seething teeth.

Dullahan resisted the temptation to point out the cause of everything--the shadow of Lord Spencer in the far recesses of the room, hidden from the illumination of the fireplace. Ever-present, ever-aware of Dullahan’s every move, since his idiotic stunt pulled against the Queen of Granorg.

Without even hearing him, of course, he could feel his lord’s lips echoing Asha’s last words.

Folds of Asha’s cloak coming into view next to the fireplace caught Dullahan immediately off-guard. The blond looked up to meet the woman’s gaze. “Why?” her one word made Dullahan tighten his jaw.

_ Because I want to go home. _

“Because the desertification is advancing fast,” Dullahan said, turning his attention back to the fire. It wasn’t a lie, but he might as well be telling one. “If the Queen is still so preoccupied with local politics, who else could be bothered to save the continent?”

Asha gave a huff. “Seems you are not that much of a fool, after all. However...” she continued, beginning to turn away. “You should consult Eruca and Marie further. They, too, play a vital part in your little stack of paper.”

“I have. I have,” Dullahan repeated in low tones. _I care not for their opinions, but I have._

Asha laughed. “I meant more on what they think would happen if this _does_ get approved by Parliament. You will genuinely be surprised,” she said, returning to her seat, and patting on the proposal document. “In the meantime, I will require further reading on this.

“My doors are open anytime, but only if you have done your homework.”

\-------

Marie stood up from a waiting bench outside the chambers, her face littered with concern-- but not with Dullahan as the recipient. “You haven’t done anything bad again, I hope,” Marie muttered, soft enough that only Dullahan could hear it.

“I don’t understand,” Dullahan said frankly, exasperated. “What is it in that woman that you and the Parliament show so much respect to?”

Marie paused for quite a while. Dullahan let her; he was getting too tired to think. “... If what you have told us so far is true, then surely you know about the Empire’s social structure,” Marie said. Dullahan nodded.

“She’s from the direct line to the throne of the Empire,” Marie said in hushed tones, having closed the gap between them. The foreigner’s eyes widened slightly, trying to take in the information that he was being fed. “The current Granorgnite royal family hails from a line of Imperial royal priests-- those who have brought the books of Flux into this world.

“If not for the Mana breach and the fall of the Empire, Lady Asha-- and all of her predecessors-- would have been in line for the Imperial throne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Recording special thanks to quicksilver_ink for being my first ever beta. If you have any comments/feedback/rants/etc, do let me know; I’d love to hear it. :’D


	21. Chapter 21

The number of things gone wrong had now exceeded the number of fingers and toes Dullahan had on him. He was going to mull it over with beer, but he found himself in the royal stables, instead.

It had always been Dullahan’s habit of checking his ride the night before any departure; even if it wasn’t his own steed, he felt obliged to build a mutual relationship with them.

The stablemaster, a gruff old man, regarded him with suspicion as he entered. Anyone would, really. Rumours had spread far and wide enough by now on his Mana-less nature, one with an easily identifiable face, too-- enough that trying to blend into the shadows of Granorg a nigh impossibility. _Just like home,_ Dullahan sighed inwardly.

The foreigner quietly approached the one he had been assigned to earlier in the afternoon-- a fiery one that was eager to show her superiority over her new handler. Thankfully for everyone at the scene, Dullahan managed to rein her in without getting himself trampled and kicked in the face.

“Hi, Beth,” Dullahan greeted her, and Beth snorted in his face. Passive-aggressiveness aside, she was no longer trying to kill him, which was always a good step ahead. This being the royal stables, the horses were all well-cared for, albeit lacking in discipline. In fact, he was _very_ sure the only reason why Beth was given to _him_ was because the handlers dared not let her near any of the important people. Like the Queen, for example.

Dullahan picked up a soft brush-- no need to currycomb when the stablehands already had-- and got to work. He brushed Beth absently as he attempted to distract himself from his dire circumstances. Ever since his little encounter with Asha, he had not dared to discuss the matter further with anyone else. He knew that the seer was right; he was rushing things through, and it was obvious that he was acting merely in his own interests. Dullahan was ready to let the matter drop into the void, and prayed that simply following Eruca’s orders would be sufficient for him to win a way back home.

He also had not managed to encounter the twins since, and it irritated him so.

Beth suddenly leaned her weight against him slightly, as if trying to get his attention on her. “Ow.” Dullahan rolled his eyes, realising he had been brushing at the same place. He blinked slightly, peering down. _She doesn’t have shoes,_ he noted, and glanced at the other horses in the stables. _They’re all without shoes._ He frowned. _These people believe in natural hooves? The horses will tire faster. That’s utterly ridiculous._ Dullahan stole a glance at the stablemaster, who had his arms folded like a disapproving father. ... _I should probably keep quiet about this._

Dullahan gave her a light pat as soon as he was done. “We’ve got a long week ahead of us, so just bear with me until our little expedition’s done,” he told her. He didn’t know if the horses here were similar with those with his homeland, but judging from Beth’s responses, it was clear that they understood body languages to a certain extent. _You would also get along well with Harley,_ he mused.

_ Oh, dear Harley, I haven’t seen you in a while. Hope you haven’t been bullying Pommel too often. _

The foreigner gave the stablemaster a quick bow before leaving the stables. Not too many minutes later, the stablemaster, too, ducked out of the building.

\-----

“Are you sure a small party would suffice?” Dullahan said, his arms folded as he watched the young Satyros pack-- with her guardian overseeing, of course.

“Of course!” Aht harrumphed. “Even if it’s just me and Elm it would’ve been enough people.”

“We’re escorting the _Queen_ , Aht. Explain to me how three people is enough.” Dullahan had seen the maps-- they were travelling _across the continent_. While he appreciated the idea of a small party being less noticeable, surely fewer than ten was borderline suicidal.

Elm gave him a look. “I thought you would’ve learnt by now that the Queen’s _more than capable_ of taking care of herself,” she sneered. Dullahan ignored her.

“And the others are alright with this arrangement? Marie? Pierre?”

Aht nodded. “We’ll be fine. Don’t worry! We’ll be back in Celestia in a jiffy,” the shaman said, making wild gestures about how exciting it would be to return home at last. At least she seemed enthusiastic enough to want to show Dullahan _everything_ about her hometown.

Dullahan would be lying if he was to say he had no interest in Celestia-- based on his readings and hearsays from the city, the homeland of the Satyros was beaming with Mana and other strange, magical traits. It was also only opened to human trade in recent years, making new possibilities endless. If there was another avenue for finding a way home, Celestia might be it.

Surprisingly, upon hearing Dullahan’s request to bring along his copy of the Black Chronicle, the Queen agreed. It would seem that she had the same thing in mind-- to seek further answers from other experts on the foreigner’s predicament.

“Also, here,” Elm called out, throwing a long, but familiar, object at him. “Are you sure you’d rather not a crossbow?”

Dullahan nodded, catching the recurved bow. “Yeah. This will do,” he said-- as much as he wanted to make use of magical crossbows, the last time he tried one behind closed doors, he couldn’t make use of their Mana-infused winding reloaders. _Deadweights._

He played with the bow for a while, trying to get a feel on its balance. “And the Queen is all right with me holding this?”

Elm frowned, but nodded. “Just in case goblins or monsters find their way to us. It’s better than nothing for you.”

_Right. Because the rest had other magical implements to protect themselves,_ Dullahan thought wryly.

“Don’t worry! I’ll protect you!” Aht beamed, making strange swiping gestures akin to swinging a mace. She was oddly happy about the notion of protecting a man much larger than herself. Thought the idea left a bitter punch in Dullahan’s ego, he made no move to burst Aht’s gleeful bubble.

“What is interesting in Celestia, though? You mentioned that you two are here to ‘pick Eruca up’.” The foreigner tilted his head.

“Yep! We’re meeting up to have a big talk!” Aht said. “It’ll be nice to hear from everyone again!”

“Everyone...?” If Dullahan was supposed to derive any meaning from it, his safest bet was that there was going to be another international summit. _Why not hold it in the Sand Fortress like the earlier one, then?_

For some reason, Elm was giving him a grave look. “Lady Aht, do you think it’s going to be okay...?”

Aht looked at Dullahan. “I wanna hear what the others think, too.”

Dullahan shrugged. “Anything that can get me home, sure.”

 

\-----

 

They passed through the Sand Fortress with relatively little incident.

Surprisingly, Marie did not follow them, having to play damage control to the Parliament’s uproar upon hearing of the Queen’s seemingly unplanned visit to Celestia. Asha had, however, made a verbal promise to aid Marie in handling the mess. That left the Queen’s escorts as Elm, Aht, and himself.

A grand total of four persons.

_She is mad. They’re all mad,_ Dullahan repeated to himself, slapping himself awake in their campsite near the Alistellan border. _I’m not going to be held responsible if anything happens._ As soon as he opened the tent flap, however-- the Devil was there, manning the fireplace.

Eruca was as surprised as he was as their gazes met. _Whose bright idea was it to arrange for my shift to be immediately after hers?_ He recalled how Aht was the one that nudged him awake. _... Well then._

The Queen’s features softened almost immediately afterwards, seemingly being reminiscent. Dullahan did not bother trying to strike up any meaningful conversation with her, and just pointed at her tent. Something along the lines of _go away and let me do my job_ was something he hoped to communicate.

He knew he had many things to tell her, but when he remembered that most of them began with an apology, he clammed up instantaneously.

Naturally, Eruca looked pained by his cold response. “... Sorry, do I bother you that much?” she began, just as Dullahan manage to break away his gaze. “You have been avoiding me.”

Dullahan snorted. Him? Avoiding _her?_ No way. “It’s late. Get some sleep,” he said simply.

Eruca bit her lip, and Dullahan’s patience grew thin.

“My Queen, it is late and you should retire to your chambers,” Dullahan said sarcastically, making a grand gesture. “Kindly vacate your watch so that I may take over-”

“I’m sorry to have been unfair to you,” Eruca cut him off, her grip on her knees tightening. “Aht told me about how you have a family back home, and how you are desperately searching for a way ever since. And I-”

“Don’t even _start_ ,” Dullahan shook his head. That little girl had been saying too much again. “You did nothing wrong. I am a fool. Always have been, always will be.” _Like how I thought I could have Parliament in my grasp-- no, that is not something one man can do._ “If that is the only thing bothering you, just go to bed. We will be arriving Celestia tomorrow noon, and I’m sure everyone will be begging for your attention as soon as you arrive.”

“... Yes... Perhaps that is for the best,” the woman said, as if unsure. It took her quite a while to pick herself up and retire into her tent. As soon as Eruca left, Dullahan breathed a sigh of relief. _She needs to stop looking at me that way. I’m not her brother, as much as she wished for it to be so._

His train of thought soon halted when he heard Beth baying, followed soon by the familiar hum of tension released from a bow.

_ The Queen. _

Dullahan rushed towards Eruca’s tent. Within seconds, a cloud of smoke billowed from within, and the monarch hurried out, coughing and dragging a sleeping Elm in tow. “We have company,” Eruca whispered, but looked otherwise well. She had, however, a mirror of light surrounding herself.

“Sleeping gas,” she explained, and Dullahan quickly covered his nostrils. “Where’s Aht?”

He froze.

Movements in the woods behind Eruca caught his eye--a rat-faced halfling waved at him with its prize.

_ They got her. _

“Stay here.” Dullahan unslung his bow and dove straight into the thickness of the brushes.

Eruca didn’t manage to stop the foreigner.

 

\-----------

 

He plunged into the familiar chill of forest air as he gave chase to the little bastards.

An arrow nocked, he held his breath and stopped in his tracks. He paused barely enough to identify the sounds of rustling bushes and snapping twigs. Two. Three. Four, at least.

He moved.

Two of them were nimbly traversing through the branches above him, like the monsters that they were. An overgrown root conquered, he pulled and took aim-- and inwardly cursed when the goblin in front of him used Aht as a shield.

They were taunting him.

He released his vengeance on one of the rats scurrying above him, the resounding scream announcing his small victory. The dying screeches of the goblin gave the others slight hesitation in their movements, but from the sound of it, they showed no signs of stopping, nor altering their course.

_ Something’s not right. _

The goblin in front of him suddenly turned, flinging Aht at him like a rag doll. Dullahan braced, catching the unconscious Satyros, and tumbled westwards into a mess of greenery out of their immediate line of vision.

“Get up, you,” Dullahan whispered in a panic, slapping at her cheeks. He couldn’t find  any wounds on her, but her face was tightened in pain. _Magic? The hell I can fix this!_

_We need to get back._ He cradled Aht’s still form, running his free hand reassuringly through her hair. The still-strung bow slipped further up his arm. Shit. Dullahan gritted his teeth, tearing his eyes from the Satyros, trying to gather his bearings. _Which way did I come from?_

The thunk of another arrow near him was signal enough for him to move. _I need to get rid of them._

As he ran, Dullahan’s legs met a tightening rope, and he lost his grip on Aht.

He was standing again within moments, kicking the now-loosened rope into his hand and gave it a tug while regaining his running momentum. A free hand bent down to pick up the Satyros, and the other threw the two goblins hanging onto the rope into the biggest trunk he could find.

There was a satisfying crack, and the familiar glint of steel. He paused.

The pause cost him as a reed arrow grazed past. His arm responded by dropping Aht once more, but his next reflexes was bouncing his slack bow into his grip, landing a well-aimed fletching between the last of the goblin archers’ eyes.

In its dying breath, the goblin let loose a final projectile that buried itself in Dullahan’s right shoulder. He staggered, but stood his ground, keeping his feet well clear of the fallen child next to him.

He knelt down, trying his luck with Aht once more. Blood was pounding in his ears; he couldn’t hear a response from Aht if she did. He tried lifting his right arm. It failed to respond. He could feel liquid loosening the death-grip he used to have on his weapon. _Shit._

_ Shit shit shit. _

He dragged the child into a bush, pulling her legs out of sight. He was caught by surprise when he felt his fingers giving up on the bow, the fallen wood smeared in thick red.

Dullahan trudged over to the collapsed goblin duo nearby, picking up one of their fallen blades with his dominant left. He could barely fit his hand into the grip, but the blade length was more than enough to compensate.

He slit the goblins’ throats. Dullahan whipped around from the unfortunate two, his sword arm shaking from pure adrenaline-- he would stop for nothing short of another kill.

“Come and _get_ a piece of me, filths!” Dullahan roared through the woods, his steps measured as he closed the distance with the last of the goblin’s little raid party. This time, the goblin was utterly terrified. It was the same one that had kidnapped Aht, Dullahan realised; and now there it was, taking fear-filled steps backwards as it raised its own blade in response.

He towered over the halfling, not bothering to parry its last desperate swing as it feebly bit into his already useless arm. He wasted no time in gutting it.

The forest was dead silent afterwards.

 

\------

 

His search for Aht was agonising. Nevermind not recognising which bush he put her in, he could barely hear anything after the important silence announcing that he was now alone. His feet were remarkably heavy, and he had an aching feeling that the arrow was dipped in something else.

“C’mon,” he murmured, tearing apart the right brush at last. He could barely see the child through the darkness of the woods. _Well, it’s still night. Of course it is. Strange. I didn’t have this problem a... while... back._

He dipped into the satchel Aht always had on her. It had numerous vials and solutions, but none of them were labelled, though they were clearly coloured. _Damn it all,_ he cursed. _I can’t tell which is for what._ “Aht... Which of these will help you?” His murder weapon forgotten behind him, he reached a bloody hand towards Aht’s frail shoulder, gently shaking her.

“C’mon... I can’t do this without you... Get up.”

An aged, disgusted voice echoed across, crisp and clear through the pounding of Dullahan’s head. “... Absolutely horrific. The filth here is you.”

The foreigner turned quickly to the source of the voice, only to be greeted by an old, bearded goblin.

The goblin was accompanied by something far more menacing. A nine-foot-tall monstrosity covered in fur and leather armor, the hands and feet double the size of their enormous, maned head.

An orcan.

The last thing he saw was a blinding flash, followed by the sound of thunder and the smell of burnt flesh that welcomed him into the darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recording special thanks to quicksilver_ink for being my first ever beta. If you have any comments/feedback/rants/etc, do let me know; I’d love to hear it. :’D


	22. Chapter 22

As soon as the man opened his eyes, he was greeted by blurred vision. He was surrounded by the vast silence of an ethereal space, the dead air punctuated only by the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. There were no walls in sight; just an endless pitch of black, with the rest of the landscape dotted by lime platforms of various sizes.

... But this was not Historia.

“Took me a few tries, but still it turned out well.” The voice of a woman echoed through the void. The voice’s source made her way into the light-- the eerie glare of white that refracted painfully into his still-adjusting eyes. “I usually do not welcome long-stay visitors,” she continued, not bothering with eye contact, “but circumstances dictated me to ensure you are aware of yourself before I send you world-bound.”

He stood, squinting at the woman. Her hair, bleached in unnatural silver, accompanied eyes of blue steel underneath a large hood. Resting against her shoulder was a pole, almost nine feet high. The banner hanging off the top edge was similar to the shade of green that dyed her cloak.

Her feet made no noise during her advance.

And although he was confident he had never met her before, he could not shake off the feeling of familiarity emanating from the woman. “... Who are you? And where am I?”

She sighed. “You currently exist in the interstice of time, the juncture between dream and reality.” She regarded him with disappointment. “You are in the company of Heather.”

He observed her for some time, quietly turning over questions in his mind. Oddly, he could not remember how he arrived here. “Why am I here?”

Heather shrugged. “Good question.”

Glaring at the woman, his hand reached for his satchel, which was nowhere to be found. “Worldly belongings don’t _exist_ here, you fool,” Heather said dryly. “Will you be making your introductions, or shall I be referring to you as Nameless?”

The man gave it some thought, scratching his chin before making his reply.

“... It’s Stocke.”

Heather’s face contorted slightly in response. “That is not even a proper name. I pity you.” She paused. “Though I suppose Dullahan isn’t, either,” she added, nonsensically, as an afterthought.

“Is this place in any way associated with Historia?” Stocke pressed, leaning against the nearest railing. The potential drop to the nether abyss from a slip did not bother him.

“... This ‘place’ is not in any way associated with one of the Governing Goddesses, no,” she said, folding her arms. Her banner was forgotten, seemingly planted into the dull limestone a few paces behind her. “How are you feeling, after being watched over like a pathetic child ever since your mysterious arrival? Feel ready to take on real life yet?”

The blond’s brows furrowed. The last thing he remembered was being in the hills near Alistel, making his way homebound after three agonising years. _Calendar years,_ he corrected himself. “How long have I been here?”

Heather put up a hand to count off her fingers. “Three months, perhaps? Could be more. Time moves strangely in your presence.” All traces of her sarcasm dropped soon after. “I suppose you are lucky you landed _here_ first, and not straight into our lands immediately.”

“Your _lands_?” Stocke repeated, his suspicions rising, a sense of dread to hear the outcome growing by the second. “Am I no longer in Vainqueur?”

She nodded briefly. “And you will do well to use your Mana sparingly, seeing as you almost suffocated from our dead air when you first arrived.” Heather wagged her index finger at him. “Luckily for you, you seem to be in good hands, after all.” She reached into her cloak, withdrawing an object that Stocke had grown all too familiar with in recent years.

The White Chronicle.

Stocke immediately stepped forward to reclaim it.

“It’s a different hue from what I’m used to,” Heather said coolly, watching him inspect the book for damage. “I’d keep it out of sight if I were you.”

He ignored her, thumbing through the Chronicle quickly. His hands wavered at the last annotated page of the tome. _No new nodes yet._ His fist clenched. _I can’t return now. Not yet._

_ How long more do I have to play by your rules, White Chronicle? _

“A light note before I deposit you off in Terrano, then, Stocke,” Heather said, reaching for her banner. “I’m looking for a lost lamb by the name of Eric. Return my favour by looking for him-- and probably also help look out for his family in the meantime, can you?”

“... And what if I said no?”

Heather smiled. “You don’t seem the type. Help this poor, trapped lady out, wouldn’t you?” It didn’t take her for long to drop the smile. “If this ‘Vainqueur’ you speak of is a land that man had conquered, chances are it would be well-documented.” Stocke could barely hide his groan at the thought of extended reading.

“Otherwise, seek out a woman by the name of Mort. I believe Elena knows where she is.”

Stocke’s eyebrow raised. “And who are these people?”

Heather’s grin returned, waving her banner in a wide arc before his eyes. “You’ll see.”

 

\-----

 

The pleasant smell of baked herbs roused him.

Immediately alert through well-honed habit, Stocke raised himself to his knees in a single move, disturbing the rushes padding the oaken bed underneath him. The blond paid no heed to the rough blanket that made its way onto the floor.

His eyes quickly took in his surroundings and, more importantly, searched for Historica’s distinctive shade of emerald, or his satchel. They were not in the room with him. Though the smell of food told him otherwise, he sensed no other living presence within the vicinity.

The woman that walked in soon after confirmed his suspicions.

It was hard to tell her build from her baggy attire, but the worn pair of armguards the short-haired woman wore betrayed her combat experience. She sighed, her brown hair bobbing with her. “Grumpy-faced already, eh? Good morning.” She curtsied, lifting her skirt slightly with one hand, the other balancing a serving tray. She wasn’t very tall. “Are you well enough to eat? I made sure the pottage’s soft enough, at least.” She gestured with her tray, taking a few measured steps forward.

Stocke lowered his guard, but frowned in confusion. The air-- it was missing a layer.

She gently took hold of his wrist, and deposited the wooden bowl into his hand, making sure he did not drop it before she let go. It was only then he realised he had a change in clothing. He could not help but stare at her.

The woman gave a reassuring smile. “Sorry. The healers said the clothes were partially the reason why you were sick, so I did the honours.”

Stocke kept silent. _Dreadfully_ silent. He reached into the bowl to devour its contents.

 

\------

 

“So your name is Stocke? How interesting,” the short-haired woman said as she added some herbs to the fire. “I’m Elena. And just so you know, I’m married.” She gave a wink.

When Stocke failed to respond to her playful demeanor, Elena shrugged.

“How did you find me?” Stocke said, attempting to focus. It proved difficult; the thin air was not what he was used to. The herbs Elena burned in the fire helped, but it was clear that something was missing here in general.

He looked at Elena, willing forth his gift of Mana Sight received from a certain young Satyros. He saw nothing.

... There wasn’t any Mana. Anywhere.

“Ah, well, our wagon was following a trail to this village, and you fell out of a tree,” Elena said, laughing lightly, bringing Stocke’s attention back into the conversation. “It was quite a surprise, really.” She looked at Stocke thoughtfully. “... On many accounts.”

Stocke tilted his head, but did not pursue further; his mind turned to other, more pressing, matters. _A world without Mana. This is why I couldn’t detect her presence._

“As for your belongings, I believe they’ve been confiscated by our store master,” Elena continued, taking her eyes off of him. “Said it’s, uh,” the woman raised two hands, her tone suddenly a pitch higher, “‘too dangerous for a sick man like you!’, I suppose.”

His responses were sluggish, but he stood as quickly as he could.

“Where is your store master?”

She pointed at the door, her smile never fading as she watched him rush through it.

 

\------

 

“No!”

Stocke took a deep breath, taking another firm step forward. The store master-- the _child_ \-- before him gripped Historica tighter. He’d had no troubles reclaiming the satchel with the White Chronicle in it, but... “It’s dangerous,” he managed; but he wasn’t sure if she understood his meaning.

The girl pouted, dragging the sword-- about her own height-- away from the man. It wasn’t the only thing the girl held onto, either-- part of his prized collection of belts dangled loosely from her shoulders. “It dangerous for YOU!” she shouted, her cheeks puffing.

Stocke frowned. What was she babbling about?

“Lil’ Rosa’s just concerned for you,” a jovial voice greeted him behind. Stocke whirled without warning, grabbing the... thing... by an ear. “Ow! Ow, ow, stop, ow! They’re sensitive, gosh!” the Beastkind protested at its ear from being so violently pulled. It -- he? -- was unlike any other Beastkind Stocke had encountered before. _A dog?_

Stocke let go; the white-furred creature took a few unsteady steps towards Rosalyn, its hands nursing its wound. “Hail, doppelganger,” he said reluctantly, folding his arms. “C’mon, we’re all just worried about you. The healer said you shouldn’t wield a sword with a breathing illness, y’know? Well, no worries, I’ll bet you can, just judging from your reflexes.”

Stocke gradually registered that the child was busy kicking at his calves, apparently disapproving of his act of self-defense. “Stop bullying Pom!” she said.

The image of another child came to mind, one who constantly warned Raynie not to resort to violence.

Using his height advantage, Stocke easily took the blade from Rosalyn’s grasp, much to her frustration. When she realised she could not possibly win against an adult, she slumped her shoulders.

“Okay! Okay! You take it, but you head _right back_ to bed!” She pointed at him. Stocke knew he was exhausted. He merely nodded.

Later, after Rosalyn had finished tucking him in with blankets and left the room (with her mother going “Good girl!” beyond the mortar walls), Stocke slid the White Chronicle out of its leather clasp and ventured into Historia.

 

\--------

 

“... How did you get in here?” Heather interrupted Stocke’s sight-seeing in her home grounds.

“And you claim this is not Historia,” Stocke retorted in return, holding up the White Chronicle. “I have questions for you.”

Heather remained silent.

“Where are Lippti and Teo?”

The white-haired woman frowned. “I do not know them,” she said. “Though... Their names are familiar.”

He tapped his fingers on the Chronicle. “Are there any other residents in this space?”

She shook her head, her grip tightening on her banner.

“Who-- or what are you?”

“Unfortunately for you, that is none of your business.” She paused. “However, I will tell you this.”

Stocke waited patiently-- he knew he had all the time in the world here.

“A game is afoot. Eric’s disappearance, your appearance, and the similarities you both share... cannot be a coincidence.”

“And this ‘Eric’-- I’m supposed to look for him.”

“I suppose you can try, though if my guess is right, he is no longer of this world.” She pointed at the White Chronicle. “After all, you, and this Chronicle, are not.”

_A world without the White Chronicle... And a world without Mana._ “Does this mean the Black Chronicle exists? Who is its wielder, and where is it now?”

Heather pursed her lip. “Black? ... Right, it is.” She paused once more. “The last I knew, Eric. Alas, the Chronicle disappeared together with him.”

More questions had arisen from his exchange with Heather, but Stocke decided to let them simmer in his thoughts for now. “Do you have any way of knowing how I can return to Vainqueur?”

Heather shrugged. “Until we find out the nature of this phenomenon, we shouldn’t act rashly,” she said. “Keep your Chronicle out of sight. Find Mort. Elena knows where she is.”

“The one I just met?”

“The very same.” She appraised him from head to toe, garbed in the set of clothes Elena put him in. “... Gosh, you couldn’t look any more identical to Eric than this, dressed in his rubbish sense of fashion.”

“His clothes? I’m assuming he is related to Elena?”

“What, it wasn’t obvious enough? Or has Rosalyn not doted all over you yet?” She frowned, arms folding.

“... O-oh,” Stocke said, feeling like a fool.

Things were going to be awkward from here on.

“Well, off you go.” Heather waved at him. “You know where to look for me if something crops up. Now let me enjoy my imaginary cup of tea in peace.”

Stocke quietly moved towards a portal of light summoned by the White Chronicle. There were no doors in sight in this Historia... And he needed time to think things through, as well.

 

\-------

 

Stocke’s eyes widened the moment he stepped out of the shack.

The village square of Mede was bustling with activity, with the women gathered around the communal well, drawing water out of it in buckets. Not a mechanical or thaumatech-powered pump in sight, they relied on a simple pulley and a heavy rope. As they worked, the women gossiped over their latest visitors-- and at the sight of Stocke, they toned down their voices significantly. Their voices rose again as the topic changed to the use of the communal oven.

Next to him, young Rosalyn stretched, grabbing hold of Stocke’s hand with her own. “Pick fruits with me,” she said, waving a hand-stitched basket hanging loosely from her arm. “We’ll be back just in time to catch Ma put bread in the oven. C’mon!”

Stocke reluctantly followed, unsure of himself. There were too many things to take in; he could not decide on what to try and understand, first. From the dead air and the altered state of Historia, to the very nature of these alien lands-- Stocke soon decided to let time pass normally and play by the ear.

He stepped into the woods with the child, and almost stumbled in surprise.

The air within the forests was more breathable; he inhaled deeply, his nostrils filling with the sweet scent of fresh, ripe fruit-- clearly fruit, but no variety he’d ever encountered, even in mystical Celestia. The woodland flourished with warmth, growing eagerly out of rich soil that was denied from the fauna found on Vainqueur.

To him, it was like entering into a different realm altogether.

Off the tall trees, Pommel-- the Beastkind-- could be seen bouncing deftly through the trees, sling in a furry hand. For every branch he bounced off, ripe fruits fell eagerly onto the dried, leaf-carpeted floor, within easy reach of Rosalyn. The Beastkind disappeared from sight soon after, but returned with a few furry mammals. Stocke squinted through the sunlight poking through the leaves, but could not identify what they were.

He was absently on alert for stray goblins and monsters, Stocke realised; but none of that appeared in their short trip.

Back at Mede, Elena welcomed their return with a smile. “Alright, Stocke, pick what you know how to do: Either you skin the hares, or you get to knead the dough.”

Stocke blinked, looking down at the animals Pommel was holding. “... Are these not your kin?” he said questioningly.

“I’m a Pup, not a rabbit, though we both have long ears,” Pommel guffawed. “Never seen a hare before? Where on Terrano are you from?”

Stocke frowned, but decided that it was best he stuck with kneading bread.

 

\-----

 

Stocke was no master of pastry even back in Vainqueur, but even he knew that an oven could be heated easily to a preferred temperature with the help of a good fire mage-- he was, back in the days of the Rosch brigade, he was the “camp’s most ideal man for cooking fire”, even without him being a cook.

What he was seeing in front of him, however, were a few men, armed with rakes, clearing the oven of firewood and ashes, after painstakingly observing the strength of its flames and ensuring it was not too hot to burn the entire village’s bread. There were no mages, no Mana influence in the entire process at all.

Unsure of whether it was the heat emanating from the oven or from the revelations of this crude, but efficient world, Stocke could feel hair rising along his arms.

At one corner of the room, Stocke watched Elena thank the village women profusely for the borrowed use of their communal oven. “It shouldn’t be too obvious if it’s just an extra two or three loaves, luv,” a woman replied, patting Elena on the shoulder. “The lord shouldn’t find out, given how often he comes around these parts! Ha ha!”

“Alright, you’re up.” One of the men beckoned to Stocke, pointing to the many doughs resting on the table. The foreigner licked his lips-- but set to spade each dough carefully into the oven.

Rosalyn had the graceful opportunity to seal the oven door, and everyone soon dispersed to return to their chores.

 

\------

 

“Did you have to pay for these amenities?” Stocke asked, looking at Elena as she refilled his bowl of meat stew.

“Of course,” she replied, “it’s only fair to them.”

Pommel nodded, shrugging. “We traded them a few of our skills for it, so you’re fine. I’ve been doing the hunting for their recent increase in supply of elk, for example,” he said. Yes-- apparently Pommel was a male of his kind.

“And I helped out with people’s chores!” Rosalyn quipped, before returning to slurping out of her bowl noisily.

Stocke’s throat immediately went dry. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“What, with your sword?” Elena’s features turned grave. “Please, don’t.”

Uncomfortably, the blond recalled Heather’s words. “I make a fine bodyguard. Are you headed somewhere?”

“Yeah, we’re heading home!” Rosalyn said, tapping her bowl happily with her wooden spoon. Elena shot her daughter a look, and Rosalyn immediately stopped tapping.

_ This cannot go on. _

“Elena, I have a question,” Stocke began, and Elena turned her full attention to him, patiently waiting. Never _once_ did she mention his similarity with her husband-- that fact alone, and the resemblance with his own sister’s unending trail of suffering, left a dry taste in Stocke’s mouth. “Do you know a person by the name of Mort?”

All activity seemed to stop at the sound of the uttered name.

“... H-hey, who did you hear that name from?” Pommel said uneasily, his eyes shifting between Stocke and Elena in rapid succession.

“I’ll be honest with you. Heather told me to ask you on Mort’s whereabouts.” Stocke pulled free a chunk of bread, dipping it into his bowl. “Whoever Mort may be, I’ve been told that I will find answers if I meet them.”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Elena whispered, her face contorting with unexplained furor. “Who is Heather? Just what answers do you need so desperately from Lady Mort that you have to ask _me_?”

Stocke paused. Was this a good way to go? The last he checked, the White Chronicle once again failed to gain a new node. All decisions he had made in the past three years-- he had no opportunity to make amends. He had grown so used to the White Chronicle’s powers that he was, admittedly, beyond the point of abuse.

The blond took a sip of the stew. “I am not from this world, Elena. I... need to go home.”


	23. Chapter 23

Sonja sighed, retying her hair neatly back in the short ponytail she now favored, and flicked her fingers, renewing the room’s spell against infections.

Gentle, warm light filtered into the room, the endless glow masking the true hour-- it was almost two in the morning. She had already sent Marco to bed, knowing his tolerance against anti-sleeps; she didn’t need another patient to look after on a third-day marathon with one already.

Her eyes flickered to the form occupying the fresh sheets, the swollen arm struggling weakly against the restraints of the bloodied splint. She made the mistake of lingering on his familiar face, sending her mind back to the times she tended to someone else; an elusive blond who was no longer with them.

_ It’s like a ghost coming back to haunt us all. _

_But no. Enough of that,_  Sonja told herself, slapping her own cheeks. She returned to her station, one hand reaching for the cold compress that had long since warmed to the patient’s feverish forehead. Her mind had not stopped turning since Eruca’s arrival into quiet Celestia-- Celestia that soon came alive with whispers of anxiety.

This man was lucky that Alistel’s Director-General of Research was the one overseeing his care, and not anyone else.

Sonja frowned. Normally, the process of disinfection was quick and simple-- the mixing of a few common herbs, infused with a tiny wink of Mana before consumption or application. But it was clear that it had failed to take effect when his fever did not disperse soon after. In fact, it should have been obvious to her from the beginning when the usual salves failed to seal the gashes.

Sonja sighed.

It was only by sheer luck that he survived the first night. It wasn’t until the next day that Eruca met with Sonja, when she was informed of the… peculiar qualities of this particular patient.

Sonja repeated to herself the words she had said to the Queen of Granorg. “But how is this  _possible?_ ” Not once in her almost-- _almost_ \-- thirty years of age had she encountered an individual not blessed with the gift of Mana. With few details from the monarch thereafter, Sonja had no opportunity to pursue the matter further.

She sniffed at the air, taking in the waft of fresh herbs she was cooking on a makeshift stove. _Not ready yet._  “If this doesn’t help you, then I don’t know what will,” Sonja muttered, sighing as she replaced the compress with a fresh one.

It had been two years back when Sonja, by some unknown surge of courage, approached Queen Eruca-- Stocke’s sister-- for access to Granorg’s royal archives, as the world scrambled to replenish Vainqueur’s ever-waning pool of Mana.

She was no expert in politics, but it was clear that competing interests were what first drove Alistel to split away from Granorg. Fueled by the Prophet’s visions and charismatic courage, certainly. Unfortunately, with the split and Granorg’s restrictive policies on Imperial knowledge, some things-- things that could have benefited mankind as a whole-- were shut away from the eyes of the world forever.

It would be unkind for Sonja to not give credit to Viola, whose personal accounts of the Prophet was the unexpected opportunity for Sonja to identify alternate medicinal sources to Mana.

One of those lost arts went by the name of traditional herbology.

Modern medicines were built on the assumption that the Mana required was already present in certain types of plants. Most only required further mixing, and possibly a spell from a healer, to achieve desired effects.  The prevailing problem was the dwindling wild population to harvest-- attempts to farm the herbs had failed, and even Celestia’s rich soil was beginning to have troubles meeting the entire continent’s demands. The bounties Alistel offered for wild medicinal harvesting to meet the military’s supply shortage did not help, either.

It was said in Imperial texts that herbology was abandoned by the contemporaries due to its tediousness when compared with Mana-infused herbs, then in huge abundance, and Mana’s positive effects well-received by the people of the Empire.  _But we will continue to fall ill,_  Sonja thought idly.  _Anything that can alleviate Vainqueur’s burden, we will have to try._

And ‘lo and behold, she had herself the first guinea pig.  _Well, not exactly one by choice,_  she mused, catching the man’s flailing good arm before he could harm himself further. She rubbed a clean hand on the bridge of her nose.  _Gods, for the sake of the both of us, I hope you get yourself together soon._

 

\----

 

  
As much as she took pride in her career, eighty hours was just too much for Sonja to swallow, even with the help of anti-sleeps.

However, she did not approve of the candidate that offered to relieve her of her shift. “You look terrible, Aht. Go back to bed,” Sonja groaned, rubbing her temples at the tiny figure standing in the doorway.

“I wanna stay,” Aht whimpered. The child’s request came through to Sonja as something both selfish and selfless at the same time.  _Right, the poor sod saved her from the goblins._

“Not when you’re still _that_  unwell, no.” Sonja sighed, hobbling over to the jug and pouring herself another hot cup of tea. “Have you looked at yourself?”

The child, dragging herself to a nearby mirror, confirmed her suspicions. One could barely recognise the usually jovial child, her accessories forgotten, her hair let down in a messy mat its owner couldn’t be bothered to comb. When Aht stared into her reflection, her sunken eyes and slack jaw greeted her in return. She wrapped the clean, oversized cloak-- the man’s-- around herself tighter.

Sonja knew, though, it wasn’t something brought on by Aht’s lack of sleep. Children of all races were specifically susceptible to Mana burn-- especially one with such a huge Mana potential as Aht’s. Not only was it deemed unethical to inflict on children, it became a highly contentious issue when Specint utilised it on adults in their interrogative process a few years back.

Under the reign of Heiss, of course.

 _It’s going to take her a while to recover,_  Sonja sighed and patted the child on her head. “C’mon, we’re getting you out of here.”

Aht blatantly refused, but had no energy to resist even a tired Sonja’s shove. They didn’t have to walk out the door before being stopped by someone else. “ _You_  look terrible,” Sonja heard the woman say, but her tired eyes, blinded by the sudden glare of the outdoors, refused to tell her at a glance who she was talking to. Thankfully for her, though, the tone was all too easy to distinguish. “Rest as and when you are able, Lady Sonja. I’ll keep watch until Marco returns.”

“... Your Majesty.” Sonja bowed simply, not in the mood for courtesies. “Surely you are needed elsewhere?”

Eruca shook her head. “It’s fine. He’s my charge, after all,” the Queen muttered, patting Aht on her tiny shoulders. “Aht, if you want to stay, you’ll have to promise not to push yourself too hard.”

The Satyros nodded as vigorously as she could.

Sonja frowned. “You are all terribly childish, you know that?” she managed, handing Eruca her stack of notes. “Do you know what to do?”

Eruca gave a tight smile. “Your handwriting is not that bad, Sonja. Give yourself more credit.”

 

 

\----

  
  


“But it’s _true_ , Patriach,” Elm declared, well within the earshot of those gathered in the elder’s hut. “Call me mad if you will, but it does not absolve the foreigner from possibly playing a part in the ambush. He is dangerous,” the Satyros hissed. “He’s a danger to Lady Aht-- to all of us. Look at him! He has  _no Mana_. This is our best chance to  _get rid of him_!”

Frowns came all around the table, but Patriach Barranca said nothing.

While details of the ambush was sketchy at best, the damage to Eruca’s caravan revealed a minimum of three assailants-- goblins, as Aht had informed them. However, goblins arranging sophisticated ambushes of this scale-- down to using sleeping gas-- was unprecedented.

“But what if the goblins just became real smart? Y’know, like us,” the raven-haired woman said. Viola watched her thoughtfully.  _This one. I know her. I was about to say she was in Stocke’s brigade..._

_ But he didn’t have a brigade... did he? _

“What were the chances of the Queen’s expedition being leaked, Elm? Perhaps they were being hired by someone?” Rosch tried to argue. The gruff, now middle-aged man huffed, arms crossed.  _He’s having less of a trouble doing that, ever since he adopted the civilian Gauntlet,_  Viola mused briefly.

It was apparent that no one else in the room was willing to accept Elm’s theory, but the feisty Satyros was undeterred. “If they’re being hired, then they’re being hired by  _him_ , to play him up as a  _victim_!” Elm roared, her anger impressive-- but not unfounded. She had been, after all, played for a fool in the ambush.

Viola let out a sigh, realising it was time for her to speak up. “So you are saying that what I have witnessed was invalid?” she offered, her tone even.

All eyes in the room turned to the former Field Marshal, dressed in plain gambeson and tunic-- a far cry from her days serving in Alistel’s military. “W-Well...” Elm stuttered, jarred by the unexpected interruption from the retired Valkyrie.

“There was a Gutral,” Viola repeated, though she had already made the facts of her encounter clear a few days earlier. “And the goblin spoke clearly in our tongue. Neither party noticed my presence. The ambush was not an instigation on the part of the foreigner.”

Viola raised a finger. “Organised ambush.” Another finger. “Goblins with a Gutral.” A third. “They dispersed immediately when I made my presence known. I can’t say much about their motives, however…

“... They’re after the foreigner, and with all due respect to the citizens of Celestia, the unfortunate Shaman was bait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks too to LadyNighteyes for her awesome proofreading for this chapter!


	24. Chapter 24

Eruca blinked back to awareness the moment she felt the slouch in her posture.  _Marco’s late._  Eyeing the Satyros huddled up in a corner, buried in the bulk of the child’s cloak, Eruca suppressed a small smile.

Sleep never had come easily to her since her brother’s death, but she had not expected the nightmares to return to her after the ambush. After all, it was clearly, logically, rationally established that he was a  _foreigner_ ; he had no kin here.

Her mind immediately presented her with dizzying, disorienting recollection of the few moments she remembered.

_“Your Majesty...?” Viola’s tone was urgent. The veteran’s eyes darted between the groggy Elm and the Queen. Eruca hadn’t noticed the white-haired woman entering the clearing; her eyes were straining to follow the foreigner, who could no longer be seen._

_In Viola’s arms, the fragile form of Aht tugged helplessly at her own cloak with a grimace. Before Eruca could speak, Elm, bolting up at the sight of her lady, willed herself forwards to claim Aht from Viola’s grasp. “There’s one more back in the woods. They were ambushed,” she heard Viola say._

_With Aht under Elm’s attentive care, Eruca followed the former field marshal back into the woods. Moonlight scarcely pierced through the thick canopy; she could barely see where they were going. Her breath came in short rasps, her mind presenting her with the worst possible imagery that she was not willing to entertain. The Queen’s grip on the fingers of her gloves grew tighter. Her throat went dry, as if bracing herself for what she instinctively knew was coming._

_No mental preparation was enough for what she found._

_Father… Father was fond of lightning, she unwillingly reminded herself. The smell of charred flesh, the residue of crackling sparks, the blond lying in the fresh pool of red--_

_\--the bitten-off scream that escaped from her own lips, hand heavy with a tome she did not want to hold. “Release the binds of the Black Chronicle!” Father roared, his impressive form towering over his children-- or what remained of them. Smoke billowed from the tip of his Mana rifle, the royal heirloom, spark residues barely escaping the confines of its firing chamber._

_So fixated on the sparks was young Eruca, she could barely understand the instructions that her own Father had just given._

_“Do you want Ernst to die for naught, Eruca?!” Victor roared once more, waving the firearm. The royal halls were terrifyingly cold that night, but Eruca’s fingers was warmed by the red seeping into her gloves-- a warm red that bubbled from her brother’s lips._

_She was powerless before the Chronicle that soon consumed her whole, the preconditions to the Ritual of Flux met._

_Not again. Not again._

_Don’t die on me, not again._

Eruca squeezed her eyes shut, willing for it to go away. She buried her face in her palms, unwilling to disclose to the world that she shed tears.

It was true; it was all true. Marie was right; the similarity was uncanny. His skill with archery, his habit of research, his skill in politics-- it made this one stranger closer to the brother she had lost, even more so than Stocke. Heiss had robbed more of Ernst from her than she initially thought.

_But Stocke is your brother, not this... man! What are you thinking!_ Eruca bit her lip, her brows sinking in anguish.

She slowly traced the edges of her eyes with a thumb to dry them, but paused suddenly at the sight unfolding before her.

“No good,” the boy whispered, removing his hands from Dullahan’s forehead. “I can’t get to him.”

His twin sister bit her lip. “This has never happened before,” the child spoke softly in return, her gaze marred with worry. “We can’t lose our sole connection left to Vainqueur. If this keeps up, our efforts...”

The twins’ interaction was interrupted by a blade pressed against Lippti’s throat.

“Aht!” Eruca said, standing quickly from her seat. “Wait!”

“Give Stocke back,” Aht said, her tone seething with hatred. The twins, ignoring her threat, only gave a passing glance to Eruca before continuing their hushed conversation.

Aht grabbed Lippti’s wrist, a clear ringing sound reverberating across the room as entities of Flux mingled with Mana. Despite Aht’s small stature, she was still taller in comparison with the twins; and Lippti was yanked away, her eyes being forced to meet with the shaman’s.

“Give Stocke _back,_ ” Aht repeated, tears threatening to flow even as her knife shook. Eruca sincerely doubted that the knife was of any threat to the ephemeral twins, but part of her was somehow rooting for the Satyros.

... But no, this had to stop.

“You won’t talk to her, but you’ll talk to me, won’t you, children of Historia?” Eruca addressed the twins, her arms folded. “It’s been a while.”

The twins said nothing.

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” Eruca continued.

Silence was still their response.

“ _Speak_ to me,” Eruca said sternly. “I’m a wielder of a Chronicle too, aren’t I? Why won’t you speak to  _me_?”

She glared at the twins.

“Why only the bearer of the White Chronicle? Why not  _me_?” Eruca shook. ”You’ve spoken to  _Heiss,_  haven’t you?” 

Lippti took a deep breath. “We’re sorry, Stocke. It would seem that we cannot leave your sister in the dark, after all,” she whispered.

_What?_

Teo clicked his tongue in mild annoyance at his twin, but Lippti ignored him. “Eruca… bearer of the Black Chronicle,” she declared, flicking away the dagger pressed against her throat, sending it skywards and burying into the shack’s thatched ceiling. Aht yelped in surprise, but that didn’t give pause to Lippti as she continued. “By the Empire’s final Ordinance, the jurisdiction of Historia and all associated therewith are to serve as guides solely to the bearer of the White Chronicle...

“... But--”

_crackle_

The twins were suddenly assaulted by sparks, arcs which carried the clear trace of Flux. Eruca hurriedly stood, but was unsure of what she could do. She shot an accusatory glare at Aht, but Aht shook her head.  _Historia is…?_

“--But… Stocke… is here… no… longer,” Teo completed his sister’s sentence, visibly flinching from the effort. “Eruca… we are sorry.”

A flash of light later, time resumed… and all traces of the twins were gone.

The queen was inconsolable for the next few minutes.

 

\-------

 

Unbeknownst of the chaos that he had wrought into Celestia, the foreigner made his escape when he confirmed that the cottage was empty.

The air was too thick for comfort. The sun was too bright. Everything ached, and his legs refused his pleas for mobility. Dullahan awkwardly stumbled through the bushes, his belongings in tow: a satchel bereft of the Black Chronicle, and the clothes draped on his back.

His eyes soon met with Beth in a series of makeshift stables; the one creature that he could rely on to get him out of here. “Good girl,” he muttered, staggering over to the horse.

“And where do you think you are headed?” a woman’s voice called out to him, taking Dullahan by surprise. It came from behind him. ... It wasn’t a voice he recognised.

“None of your business,” Dullahan spat, waving her off with his only working arm. The woman’s surprisingly firm grip caught his arm, turning him around and making him lose his footing, sending him crashing towards soft grass.

“Look at you. You can barely stand.” Dullahan squinted against the bright sun to catch the woman’s features-- a mercenary by the garb, her hair a mat of unyielding, glaring silver. Just taking in the sight of her was giving him a headache. She sighed. “Half of them expected you to run away, which is why I am here in the first place. And you certainly met their expectations... ser Dullahan.”

There was, once again, the trace of doubt in the woman’s tone to his identity that he had grown so accustomed to hearing in Vainqueur by this point. But the foreigner elected to ignore it, focusing instead on trying to get back on his feet. He failed--miserably.

Dullahan drew out his breath slowly, before smashing his fist into the grass. “Why can’t you all just  _leave me alone_ ,” he snapped, his patience at its limits. Vainqueur must see him like a sick joke. Failures at every turn, unexpected consequences at every juncture-- it was sufficient to drive him  _mad_. Was his request so unreasonable? Was the universe out to torture him? Did the world derive enjoyment from his suffering?

He flung his satchel at the woman, but the satchel missed his mark completely. Unwillingly, he reached to clutch his arm-- the arm that he forcefully pulled the makeshift splint off of, and also the arm that he reflexively used to do the idiotic toss.

The world spun for quite a bit before it welcomed him once more into the embraces of darkness.

\----

“--at this rate, he’s going to need a chaperone.”

Dullahan squinted; he was back in the bloody cottage. He made sure he made no sound, as painful as it may be. His arm felt like it had been burned twice over, though there seemed to be something cool resting against it under all the bundle of white. The splints were, annoyingly, back in place.

The strangers’ conversation moved on. “Do you not think your sentiments are getting in the way? Just because the Queen is bewitched by this man’s appearance, does not mean that the rest of us have to follow suit.”  _This voice... the woman from the stables._  Not realising that Dullahan was awake, the woman continued. “Many of us couldn’t care less if he decides to seek his own death. This applies to you two, as well.”

Dullahan dared to take a look at the other two in question. One of them was a ridiculously tall man with a pale blond ponytail-- and an arm of gold. His back was turned to him-- his broad shoulders effectively blocking the silver-haired woman from Dullahan’s sight.

The man tapped his foot in annoyance, arms folded across his chest. “Look, it’s not all about sentimentality,” he said, and a woman next to him-- her brown hair also in a ponytail-- put a hand on his shoulder. “There’s... there’s reasons, okay. Especially with what Eruca told us.” There was a long pause. “There’s nothing wrong with us wanting answers from this foreigner.” Even from Dullahan’s vantage point, it was clear that the man was visibly shaken.

Just then, a pair of emerald eyes emerged above the side of Dullahan’s cot, staring at him, hugely intrigued. The boy’s tiny gloves followed, fingers resting on the feathered quills.

“Ma! He’s up!”

If Dullahan could manage a facepalm, he would have done so.  _Stupid kid..._ He groaned.

“Stocke, no, leave the poor man alone,” the soft-spoken voice could have only come from the other woman, quickly approaching to drag the small child away from him. She gave an apologetic smile to Dullahan before giving a private reprimand to the boy.

The other stern woman huffed, turning to walk out. “Rosch, Sonja... It’s been three years. I am slightly disappointed.”

Dullahan caught the man-- Rosch-- tightening his fists into balls by his sides.

 

\---

 

“Sorry about that,” Sonja said, with a hand on his forehead. Dullahan frowned in response; but Sonja’s gentle smile merely widened. “You probably shouldn’t have tried to run off while you’re still battling with the infection, you know.”

They made him sit up in the bed, his back propped up by something oddly soft and comfortable. It was the same thing they made his head rest against, earlier, too-- akin to something found only in the bedrooms of the highest order of nobilities. Not that he was in the position to complain about anything.

Across the room, Rosch brooded in a chair, his golden arm absently patting the poor boy’s head. Somehow, Dullahan could not shake off the feeling that the giant of a man was staring straight into his soul.

“Don’t let Rosch get to you,” Sonja whispered in his ear, giving his good shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Well,  _that_  was unexpected. Then again, it was a trend he should have recognised earlier amongst healers: Anything to make sure the wounded stay put. He grimaced briefly, remembering the last time he had an encounter with a genuine healer from his home world.  _At least this woman doesn’t try to shower me with hugs or solicit pets from me._

“There are people _eagerly_ waiting for your recovery so that they can  _finally_ have a chance to talk to you,” Rosch’s shouted across the room, his frustration evident in his deep tone. “You better be prepared.”

“Rosch!” Sonja scolded, clicking her tongue. She pointed at the doorway. “You. Escort the son out of here.”

Dullahan swallowed, but was otherwise unwilling to let anyone know that he was slightly intimidated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks too to LadyNighteyes and jikanet-tanaka for her awesome proofreading for this chapter!


	25. Chapter 25

Dullahan took another slow spoonful of pottage. Though he was stumbling a lot less, his hands still shook from using even the simplest of tools. Lady Sonja told him it was a regular side-effect from being struck by lightning-- not that he had any prior experience to reinforce her claim.

He grimaced. Did he really lose to mere animals? He was losing his touch.

 _The bigger problem is the orcan. Are these people aware? It could be here any minute now._ Dullahan stared into his bowl’s soupy contents.

“Y’know, if you keep up that face any longer, it’s going to stick,” his chaperone called out to him from the kitchen, rubbing her hands on her apron. “How’s the food? Not too shabby I hope?”

Dullahan looked up, shrugging. He didn’t have the energy to speak-- especially not when, to his dismay, Aht and the Queen seemed to be avoiding him.

Raynie gave a helpless grin. “Cheer up, man,” the raven-haired woman said, edging closer to the table. “Just... Don’t worry too much? We’ll sort everything out eventually. I think.”

“Easy for you to say,” Dullahan muttered simply.

When he saw Raynie edging dangerously closer to him, perhaps within a few feet, Dullahan scooted across his bench to maintain their distance, his bowl in tow. This wasn’t the first time his chaperone tried to pull this sort of trick-- he caught her once trying to watch him _sleep._

He had _absolutely no idea_ how to deal with this woman.

“I was really surprised, y’know? Bumping into you again after that time in Alistel,” Raynie huffed, crossing her arms disappointedly. “You’re in one _hell_ of a ride now that we know about you.”

“I’m in hell _already_.” Dullahan buried his face in the bowl, not wanting to make eye contact. So what if they were interested in him? It was none of his business.

Everyone should just go away and leave him be.

“... You’re really not,” she said with a sigh. “I, uh, heard quite a bit about you from Aht. Where you come from, sounds like hell too. I mean, Vainqueur’s pretty messed up too, but. I can’t imagine living in a world without any traces of magic, just sayin’.”

“And I, you.” Can he just go away already? Was there an application for a change in watchers? Even better, can his legs support him far enough to escape this mad house, at the very least?

Raynie, however, was _watching his every move_. He could hardly remember his earlier encounter with the woman, considering the events that followed-- three months in Vainqueur felt like _decades_ \-- but she was being _unbearably_ fixated on him.

The woman suddenly put a hand on his forehead, taking him by surprise. It was by sheer miracle he did not choke on his food. Dropping his spoon, he gently tried to pry her fingers away from him. “Oh good, the fever’s receding,” he heard her say, but he wasn’t really listening.

“Y-yes, I’m fine,” Dullahan replied quickly, standing a bit too abruptly, eager to keep his distance. His legs gave way from the short notice, and Raynie quickly went to steady him.

“Oh, shit, sorry!” Raynie jerked back immediately after watching him flinch from her clutch on his wounded arm. If anything, majority of the support came from Dullahan’s own palm on the table. He shook his head repeatedly.

“I lost my appetite. I’m heading out for a walk.”

Raynie diligently tailed after him with a cloak and a scarf.

 

\-------

 

Rosch uncomfortably watched his raven-haired subordinate follow the foreigner around Celestia as the man took in the sights. “Sonja...”

“What is it?”

“Are we... _really_ sure that’s not him?”

Sonja sighed exasperatedly behind him. “He had a different sets of scars. It’s not him. Unfortunately.  Also, that’s the fourth time you asked me the same question.”

“... But--”

“Rosch. While I can’t blame you for being distracted, please remember the reason why we’re gathered in Celestia in the first place.”

Rosch turned around to look at his wife-- but the person who greeted him back was Director-General Sonja, her eyes solemn with the weight of her research. Scattered all across the table before her were notes on Mana preservation and rejuvenation of the continent. It had taken her three years to gather this much from the few clues Stocke left behind, and it was time for her to present her findings to the few who gathered who still remembered the man.

“... I’m sorry,” Rosch replied, scratching his head. The foreigner’s arrival was by far the biggest surprise of this year’s gathering, even if the Queen did warn them in her correspondences beforehand.

He merely wasn’t ready to greet such a man while the same man was dying, that’s all.

Though neither of them said anything, the couple were struck by a painful sense of _deja-vu_. Logic-- history-- dictated the impossibility of their memory.

He and Sonja were not alone. Marco, who first noticed the discrepancies, had worked for the past three years to compare versions of events that their tightly-knit group recalled. While astonishing if interpreted alone, the nature of the parallel events ceased to be mysterious when the Queen told them outright on the possibilities of the White Chronicle.

His wife folded her arms before him, but let out a reassuring smile. “The Chroniclers’ meeting this year will make a breakthrough with that foreigner, I’m sure of it.”

 

======

 

Over supper in camp, Stocke gave the Maxwell household-- Elena, Rosalyn, and Pommel-- a brief rundown on Vainqueur, the concept of Mana, and the difficulties he had faced here in his short stay. For the benefit of the younger member of his small audience, Stocke made sure that his explanations were brief and concise.

Though Rosalyn was excited to hear more, her sentiments were not shared by the others. Pommel tilted his head incredulously, and Elena outright shook her head.

“You are mad,” Elena said simply. “The power of enchantments belong only to the Goddesses, and its rights granted to only the most loyal of their subjects. It is beyond the reach of commoners such as _you and I._ ”

“These people, can you lead me to them?” Stocke paused. “Is Mort one of these… subjects?”

Elena pursued her lips. “The ‘subjects’ were our ancestors, members of the Capitolina Empire. To use magic and enchantments now, as a commoner, is a sin.”

Stocke frowned, but held a hand to his chin. “The Empire?” _The two worlds share a Historia, dissimilar in appearance they may be... are they really that different?_

Elena nodded slowly, putting down her mug. “Our ancestors once made a grave mistake, the price of which is still being paid by us today.” She gestured to the village around them. “This includes the loss of our ancient knowledge in magic. Not a trace has been found since the destruction of the Empire. We essentially had to rebuild civilisation from naught since the day of the Reckoning.”

“Reckoning?”

“Raccooning!” Rosalyn chipped in. She had wandered across the fireplace, coming to rest her head on Stocke’s from behind him. “The End of Capitolina!”

Stocke froze in place, not wanting to make any movements in case Rosalyn lost her balance.

“We must learn from their mistakes, which is why we record them dutifully,” Pommel agreed, folding his arms. “And that is the Sect of Principality. Most of us are devout followers of the Sect’s teachings.

“Eight hundred years of history from the day of the Reckoning, and it grows daily. That is the duty of the Sect-- to record history in the making, and to prevent history from repeating again.”

 

======

 

Dullahan concluded the boring religious narrative heard a million times in his childhood, and another million times from his own wife. He met his gaze with the small crowd before him.

The “Chroniclers”, they called themselves-- a group with seemingly unknown relations banding together to solve Vainqueur’s greatest mysteries. Dullahan made diligent effort to learn each name, but there were familiar faces all round regardless.

Prime Minister Raul.

Director-General Sonja of Alistel’s Military Hospitallers, with her spouse, General Rosch of the Regular Army.

Viola, ex-Field Marshal of Alistel’s Regular Army.

Patriach Barranca, the leader of the Celestians, flanked by Aht and Elm.

Raynie and Marco, the kind strangers from the Alistellan bar.

Kiel, the jailer from the Sand Fortress.

Lastly, Queen Eruca and Marie, representing Granorg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Recording special thanks to quicksilver_ink for being my first ever beta. If you have any comments/feedback/rants/etc, do let me know; I’d love to hear it. :’D

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Recording special thanks to quicksilver_ink for being my first ever beta. If you have any comments/feedback/rants/etc, do let me know; I’d love to hear it. :’D


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